


Fine Line

by galaxiesundone



Category: Harry Potter - J.K. Rowling
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Drama, Corruption, Dubious Morality, Eventual Dark Harry Potter, Love/Hate, M/M, Manipulation, No Bashing, Obsession, Rowena Ravenclaw's Diadem, Slow Burn, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26949952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxiesundone/pseuds/galaxiesundone
Summary: Magic always leaves traces. The lingering darkness ofSectumsempra, combined with Harry’s nature as a horcrux, awakens the soul piece contained within Ravenclaw’s diadem. At twenty years old, Tom Riddle walks a fine line between man and monster, the devil and the light-bringer in one. His influence forces Harry to face an ancient enemy unlike anything he has faced before: temptation.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 322
Kudos: 764
Collections: Tomarry Favorites





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First off, this story is beta read by the wonderful [ diki777](https://archiveofourown.org/diki777)
> 
> The premise is loosely inspired by _Hannibal_. Although there are plenty of differences between the show and my fic, I do credit it for the idea of a slow-building corruption arc—which is what I’m going for here. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> As a warning (if the inspiration wasn’t warning enough), things are going to get dark. I’ll throw in “Graphic Depictions of Violence” somewhere along the line, but… yeah. Expect murder and violence and such. Other triggers will be mentioned in author’s notes.
> 
> Catch me on my [Tumblr](https://galaxiesundone.tumblr.com).

What had the Half-Blood Prince been thinking, to copy such a dark, dangerous curse into his notes?

The familiar cover of _Advanced Potions-Making_ disappeared behind blistered brown wood as Harry swung the cupboard door shut, his blood alive with a combination of adrenaline, fright, and horror. Ignoring the frantic _thump-thump_ of his heartbeat, he stepped back, his gaze darting around the Room of Requirement’s latest form.

Surrounding him was centuries’ worth of clutter, objects piling up over the years to create an enormous, haphazard city in and of itself. The stone floor was hidden beneath the jumble: everything Harry could imagine, from books and robes to jewellery and weapons, strewed amongst the never-ending heaps of broken furniture. Snape would never find the book here, even if he knew about the Room’s existence—hell, _Harry_ would never find the book here, either, unless he marked his place. 

Rather than reassuring him, however, the knowledge only depressed him. Despite everything—Malfoy’s prone body bleeding out on the floor and Snape’s dangerously quiet voice echoing in his ears—he didn’t want to lose the Half-Blood Prince’s book. One spell, horrible as it had been, was nothing compared to the positive effect the Prince’s scrawled notes had had on his life. No, he had to return for the book. Who knew where he would be without it?

Harry glanced to his right and spotted the chipped bust of an ugly old warlock. Seizing it, he planted it on top of the cupboard, before searching for something else to distinguish it from the rest of the jumble. 

An old tiara sitting on a crate caught his attention. Unlike the dull, blackened silver, the vivid blue sapphires inset within the headpiece gleamed proudly, almost alluringly. Harry reached out, his fingertips brushing against warm ( _warm?_ ) metal.

The air went still. A handsome face flashed inexplicably in his mind, deep brown eyes alight with hunger. 

_“How do you split your soul?”_

The world exploded with white-hot pain. 

His knees gave out beneath him, pulling him to the ground, and he heard an awful scream—his own, he realised distantly, trying to tear his hands away from the tiara, but they wouldn’t move, stuck to the burning metal—he needed them to move, to stop the pain, like his scar was being carved into his forehead again, inch by unbearable inch, and the black spots dancing around the corners were getting larger and larger—

—until his vision faded into nothingness.

* * *

When he came to, he was kneeling in a dark forest, and Tom Riddle was peering down at him, eyebrows raised and head tilted in the picture-perfect image of curiosity.

 _This is a nightmare,_ was Harry’s first thought. Then: _Wow, his teeth are really white._

Because, upon noticing that he was conscious, Riddle had flashed him a bright, disarming smile, his cheek dimpling. Voldemort had _dimples._ Harry stared. 

“Hello,” Riddle said pleasantly, and the shock of hearing his low, silky voice—the same voice that Harry had heard hundreds of times, in his thoughts, in his dreams, taunting, demanding, whispering, shouting, persuading—jolted him from his daze. He leaned down, his smile turning gentle. “How did you get here?”

Harry reached for his wand, but his fingers only grasped at thin air. His chest seized. Riddle had taken his wand. Riddle had left him defenceless, probably to kill him. At least he was learning from his mistakes.

When he looked up, Riddle was frowning. “You can’t use magi—”

Harry swung. His fist connected to Riddle’s nose with a satisfying crunch. Riddle stumbled, eyes widening momentarily before narrowing into furious, scarlet slits. Blood trickled from his nostrils, stark against his pale skin, but as he stalked forward, the flow stopped within moments.

Maybe punching Voldemort in the nose hadn’t been the best idea. 

Making to scramble to his feet, Harry was stopped by a kick to his stomach. He fell, winded, and Riddle’s well-polished boot held him firmly in place. 

Riddle looked down at him, curling his lip. His nose had already stopped bleeding, though blood still glistened on his upper lip. “I don’t know who you are, but how utterly mannerless you must be, to invade my living space and assault me.” 

“You don’t know who I am?” Harry asked incredulously.

“No,” Riddle said, sneering. His boot pressed harder, and Harry wheezed. “Should I? Do you expect me to know the name of every piece of Mudblood filth that crosses my path?” He crossed his arms. “I assume that you know what I am, and you entered my mindspace to kill me. Unfortunately for you, you have failed horribly. However, before I drain you of your soul and finish you off, I order you to tell me how you entered.”

Riddle was extremely pissed off by having been punched in the nose, Harry gathered. He considered the man’s words for a moment before the truth struck him. 

“You’re a horcrux,” he blurted out, pulse hammering in his ears. He had stumbled across a real, live horcrux by accident.

“Playing stupid suits you, but it does not bode well with me.” Riddle bent slightly to peer at Harry, shifting more of his weight onto Harry’s stomach. Harry groaned. Suddenly, a pale, long-fingered hand reached out and brushed aside his fringe, which was sticky with blood. He hadn’t realised, but his scar must have started bleeding when he had touched the tiara—the same scar that Riddle was staring at with a strange, somewhat bemused expression on his face. 

“Your diary... knew who I was when we met,” Harry gasped. He had to keep Riddle interested. He had to survive. If he managed to escape the tiara alive, he would be able to take it to Dumbledore, destroying one of the horcruxes. 

Riddle’s eyes snapped away from the scar. “What events occurred for you to meet with my diary?” he asked, dangerously soft. Without waiting for Harry to respond, he continued, “You are a very interesting boy—a very contradictory boy. Somehow, you discover one of Hogwarts’ greatest secrets, the Room of Hidden Things; you find my diadem amongst the chaos; you get past my defences, impossibly curse-scarred and reeking of dark magic; you made me strong enough that I managed to pull you within, weak enough that I could not stop myself from doing so; you claim to know my diary, presumably because my other self—my main self—has found an opportunity to open the Chamber of Secrets. Yet, after all is said and done, you assaulted me in my own mindscape, where I hold the power. That was not a wise decision. I take it that you are a Gryffindor?”

“Yes.” Harry probably should’ve been offended at Riddle’s tone, but—“Reeking of dark magic?” 

_Sectumsempra_. Although it was the least of his concerns right now, Harry couldn’t help feeling a little ill at the realisation. 

“Reeking,” Riddle said. “I wonder how an apparent pawn of the resistance against me came to dabble in the Dark Arts. Tell me, who are you?”

He shifted his leg off Harry’s stomach, then pulled him to his feet by the wrists in a swift, elegant movement without waiting for him to catch his breath. Harry staggered, unwillingly clutching on to Riddle’s shoulder to steady himself, the ridiculously tall bastard.

“Don’t try to run, little lion,” Riddle added. “Needless to say, you won’t escape. You will simply waste my time.”

“I won’t,” Harry snapped, bristling at Riddle’s condescension. He wrenched away from Riddle. As he paused to catch his breath, he wondered where to start, what to say to convince Riddle to let him go. Finally, he said, “My name is Harry Potter, and I survived your Killing Curse.”

Within seconds, Riddle’s hand shot out and curled around Harry’s throat. It rested against his hammering pulse—a wordless warning, like the flare of a cobra’s hood. His face was hard.

“If you are lying,” he said lowly, “you will come to regret it.”

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head wildly. “You saw my scar, Riddle—it’s from the curse rebounding. You came after me when I was a baby. You told my mum to step aside, but she didn’t. She begged you to take her life instead of mine. You killed her before turning your wand on me. But the spell backfired because of her love, and you were left without a body for thirteen years. You possessed snakes—and one of my Professors—until you finally got a body back with the help of my blood. You went into hiding for a year before I revealed you to the Ministry, and now, you want to kill me at any cost. The Killing Curse gave us a connection through my scar; I reckon that’s how I got in.” 

Riddle was staring at him, dark eyes intent, expression unreadable. A strange silence hung in the air, and Harry shifted his weight from foot to foot, wishing that he knew what was going on inside Riddle’s head. 

“You didn’t tell me who you are,” Riddle said finally.

“What?”

“You didn’t tell me who you are,” he repeated. The bright, disarming smile returned, though his hand still lingered on Harry’s throat. “You told me about _myself,_ Harry, and while I… appreciate the information, I would much rather hear about you.” He stepped closer. “For example, what sort of dark magic were you practicing before you entered my diadem?”

Harry blinked, the question catching him off-guard. Everything seemed so distant now: the _Sectumsempra_ incident, the looming threat of punishment, the Half-Blood Prince’s book. “I accidentally cursed my classmate,” he said cautiously. “I didn’t know what the spell did, just that it was ‘for enemies’. It was an accident.”

“What did you do to your classmate?” Riddle asked. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Harry once.

“The spell made him bleed. He would’ve died if Sn—a professor hadn’t come in.” Harry swallowed, tearing his gaze away from Riddle’s too-interested one. The grass was pale brown and sparse; none of the dirt had stained his robes or trainers. “It was an accident. He was a Death Eater, and he was about to cast the Cruciatus curse at me.”

Riddle leaned forward. Harry tried to shift away from him, but his back hit the trunk of a tree that definitely hadn’t been there a second ago. His hand trailed up Harry’s throat to forcefully tilt his chin. 

“Do you feel sorry for him, Harry?” he breathed.

“Wha—of course I do!” Harry scowled. What the hell was Riddle trying to say? Did he think Harry was a monster like him? No one deserved what had happened to Malfoy.

“I’m not asking you if you regret what you did.” Riddle paused, tilting his head to the side. When he spoke again, his words were slow and deliberate, and each were a knife to Harry’s gut. “I’m asking you if you feel sorry for him.” 

Harry wanted to look away, to escape the knowing curl of Riddle’s lips, the amusement glittering in his eyes, but the other man’s grip was a vice on his chin. Riddle already knew the truth, that Harry didn’t feel sorry for Malfoy. Although he regretted cursing the git, Malfoy was a Death Eater who had tried to torture him, a bigot and a bully who had been at his throat for years. If their roles had been reversed, he knew Malfoy wouldn’t feel a shred of remorse. 

“Tell me the truth,” Riddle said softly, smiling, “and I promise to let you leave.”

His heart sunk. He had the perfect way out. Riddle didn’t know about the prophecy, the Order of the Phoenix, the other horcruxes—the dozens of loose ends that Harry had left out of his story. All he had to do was swallow his pride and admit he didn’t feel sorry for a bullying git of a Death Eater. It seemed a bit too convenient to be real, but he didn’t have a choice, unless he wanted to be trapped with Riddle for eternity. What would the truth hurt, anyway?

“Alright.” Harry exhaled. “Fine. I don’t feel sorry for Malfoy. He brought it on himself. Now, can you let me go?”

“Of course.” Riddle was still smiling pleasantly, though Harry could’ve sworn there was a mocking edge to it, as though he knew something Harry didn’t. _Creepy bastard_. “I always keep my promises.” 

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but he didn’t get a chance. Riddle held a finger to his scar, and a tender warmth the likes of which he had never felt before washed over him like sunlight. The world disintegrated, meaningless compared to the sheer bliss coursing through his veins; his eyes fluttered shut; his breath escaped in ragged bursts; his arms seized Riddle’s to bring him closer, wanting, _needing—_

—and he was standing in the Room of Hidden Things, a cold, tarnished tiara clutched between his hands.

_Huh?_

Harry’s head spun as he stared at the tiara—the diadem, Riddle had said. What had Riddle done to him? He felt hollow, strangely disconnected from reality. All he could think about was the warmth, mysterious and beautiful and sweeter than a thousand Patronuses—the warmth that _Riddle_ had given him by touching his now-prickling scar. The implications of that were… not something he wanted to think about.

Tearing his gaze away from the diadem, Harry found himself looking at a cupboard with blistered wooden doors. Abruptly, the day’s events came flooding back into his mind: Malfoy, Myrtle’s bathroom, _Sectumsempra,_ Snape. Snape was waiting for him.

“Fuck,” Harry muttered. Fumbling with the diadem, he shoved it into the pocket of his robes, before racing toward the exit as fast as he could on unsteady legs. He would rather hold on to the horcrux for a little longer than deal with Snape’s wrath.

* * *

Snape had definitely not been pleased, and neither had McGonagall. Harry’s ears were ringing with the scolding they had given him. He had to be in detention for the rest of the year! Meanwhile, although he had nearly killed two students, Malfoy was getting off scot-free. His tearful words in the bathroom had made Harry more certain than ever that he had been Marked, but of course, no one else believed him.

_“Do you feel sorry for him, Harry?”_

Then, there was the matter of the diadem horcrux. Harry had pushed the encounter with Riddle to the back of his mind as best as he could, but now, sitting in the Gryffindor common room, his scar prickling irritatingly… he couldn’t stop thinking about him. Whenever he closed his eyes, he only saw the mocking edge to Riddle’s smile as he held his finger to Harry’s scar, the amused glint in his dark eyes… the blissful, inexplicable warmth that his touch had produced. 

His fists clenched. He had to take the horcrux to Dumbledore tonight, before it sunk its claws into him further. Dumbledore would know what to do.

Excusing himself with a mumble, he headed up to the dorms, leaving Hermione to stare up after him disapprovingly. Ron still had his face buried in a book, pretending to ignore the tension hanging thick in the air.

Harry clambered into bed, drawing his curtains shut behind him. Safe behind the wall of fabric, he finally fished out the diadem from his pocket. The metal was cold, lifeless, and for a brief, awful moment, he wondered if he had completely imagined the whole encounter.

 _Are you looking for me?_ a horribly familiar voice said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I’d love to know your thoughts. This is my first story in years, and I’m very, very open to constructive criticism.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve made a couple of minor edits to Chapter One, which have been listed below.
> 
> \- Dumbledore is acknowledged! Harry considers taking the diadem to him twice, though he doesn’t have the chance. (Shoutout to XKurapikaX for pointing this out!)  
> \- Harry’s scar is constantly prickling from the moment he leaves the diadem.
> 
> Finally, thank you to everyone for the positive feedback! Seriously, it made my whole week. I love you guys so much.

He lived in the in-between.

Tom Marvolo Riddle’s world was confined to the interstices of reality, a balancing act between life and death, wakefulness and slumber. At first, he had been closer to the former than the latter, drifting from dream to dream (or was it memory to memory?) like a ghost: here, the day he had brought the two children to the cliffside, shattering their small, fragile minds with a force beyond their comprehension; there, the moment he had found Ravenclaw’s lost diadem within the heart of an oak tree, a step forward in achieving a greatness untouched by any wizard before him. 

Time wore on, however. An eternity passed by in a heartbeat, and despite the castle’s magic waxing and waning about him, he could feel himself growing weary, energy sapping away in the absence of souls to feed. When the moment of unconsciousness finally came, he didn’t know—he didn’t even know that he was asleep until the boy woke him up.

Harry Potter. His unwitting horcrux. His  _ human _ horcrux.

Once again, Tom was drifting from dream to dream, memory to memory: here, the moment Lord Voldemort was consumed by his own Killing Curse, shattered by a force beyond his comprehension; there, the day he had been resurrected, his goals lost to him alongside his sanity. Ambition had been replaced with sadism, common sense with cruelty. 

Lord Voldemort’s mind had become as fragmented as his soul, painting the legacy of a madman rather than a visionary, and that simply wouldn’t do. It was time for Tom Marvolo Riddle to find a path back to the living.

* * *

The diadem tumbled out of Harry’s grasp as he shot to his feet, stumbling in his haste. His gaze darted around the area frantically, as though Riddle was going to pop out from beneath his bed. 

_ I’m in your head, _ Riddle said helpfully. A floaty feeling blossomed in Harry’s chest—amusement, he realised after a moment, except he had nothing to be amused about. Was he feeling Riddle’s emotions? 

“Get out!” Harry snapped, clutching at his forehead. Although the prickling in his scar had stopped, his stomach turned. Voldemort was in his  _ head. _ The amount of damage he could do by possessing Harry was unimaginable. He could learn the Order’s secrets, hurt Ron and Hermione, lose the war, all while Harry was unable to stop him, because he was a fucking moron who should have gone to Dumbledore the second he escaped the diadem.

_Calm_ _down._

“How am I supposed to calm down?!” Harry yelled. His pulse was a rapid, rhythmic drumbeat in his ears. “I have Voldemort in my fucking head!”

_ Calm down. _ Riddle’s voice was firm.  _ Breathe. You’ll look insane, shouting to yourself. I won’t hurt you. _

“Oh, because you’re just so trustworthy.” Harry scoffed. Still, maybe he shouldn’t have been shouting about Voldemort being in his head where anyone could have heard him. Merlin knew he didn’t need a repeat of fifth year. His hands trembling slightly, he pulled out his wand and shot a _ Silencio _ at his bed curtains before sitting down. “Great. I have Voldemort in my head. Can you leave now?”

_ I’m afraid not. Unless you would be so kind as to acquire me a body— _

“Not a chance,” Harry said. He knew what giving a body to a horcrux really meant, no matter how elegantly Riddle danced around the topic: Ginny, pale and barely breathing on the Chamber of Secrets’ floor.

Riddle sighed.  _ Unless you would be so kind as to acquire me a body, we are trapped together for the foreseeable future. In the meantime, it would be prudent of you to listen to what I have to say. We needn’t be enemies, Harry. _

A sharp bark of laughter burst from his lips. “‘We needn’t be enemies’?” he mocked. “You should have thought about that before killing my parents! You should have thought about that before trying to kill me every. Single. Year!”

_ I am  _ not  _ the Lord Voldemort you know, _ Riddle said heatedly. The conviction in his voice gave Harry pause, if only for a moment. He could feel his agitation simmering beneath the surface, the coolly pleasant veneer giving way to a live, buzzing impatience, like a child waiting for permission to play with a shiny new toy.

_ Listen to me,  _ he continued.  _ We have a common enemy—my other self.  _

Harry snorted. “Why should I believe you?” he asked. “Maybe you’re saner than Voldemort, but that doesn’t take a lot, to be honest with you. Your diary wasn’t exactly the poster-boy of goodness, either—he set a giant bloody snake on me. Why shouldn’t I just go to Dumbledore?”

_ If you would be quiet and listen to what I have to say, perhaps some of the information I have would make it through your thick skull,  _ Riddle bit out. His annoyance was sharp, but Harry hadn’t missed the spike of fear at Dumbledore’s name.

“Ouch.” Harry rolled his eyes, somewhat relieved that Riddle had dropped his façade of maddening politeness. Like hell was he going to let Riddle tell him what to do and manipulate him in his own mind, though. Riddle had been a master of deception since his childhood. He probably wanted to continue where Voldemort had left off, and he would tell Harry anything in order to get what he wanted. “Thanks, but I think I’ll be heading up to D—”

His nerves lit up with pain.

Harry screamed. His muscles gave out, back hitting the mattress with a gentle  _ thud, _ but he could only appreciate the landing for a split second, because the same knife from when he had touched the diadem was carving his scar back into his forehead again, each centimeter a fiery agony, and he needed the pain to stop, he would do anything…

It felt like hours before the pain stopped and relief surged through him, turning his body to jelly. He lay still for a long moment, gasping for breath, his blankets and sheets in disarray around him.

_ Will you listen now?  _

Despite the calm, cold way in which Riddle spoke, there was a strange undertone of exhaustion to his words. Had torturing Harry tired him out somehow? 

Served the bastard right, at least.

“Yes,” Harry rasped, his throat raw from screaming. He had been tempted to say “no”, but he had a feeling Riddle wouldn’t let up, and the sooner he got his little speech over with, the better.

_ Thank you,  _ Riddle said.  _ No matter what you think in the moment, kindly let me finish my speech. You are awfully stubborn—an admirable quality, if you know when to bow rather than break. I see a wealth of potential in you, Harry Potter, simply waiting to be cultivated. On… merging with you, I received all of your memories related to Lord Voldemort, and while I was impressed by your determination and talent, I was equally disgusted by the degradation of my past self’s mind. _

_ Believe it or not, my original goals were not senseless, unnecessary violence. Wizarding Britain had suffered greatly in the late 1940s. Grindelwald’s war had scarcely touched us, however; it was World War II that had cost the British Muggles much of their wealth, power, and territory, harming Wizarding society in turn. Tensions were high. People craved security, a sense of order amongst the chaos, and pureblood traditionalists were restless. In the post-war climate, I was their beacon of hope, a charismatic, radical political leader who stood for total isolation from the Muggles. _

_ They, who destroy the Earth with their bombs and pollution, who oppress others for the colour of their skin, who live in ignorance of wizardkind because they would otherwise burn us—why should they be in control of our lives? We, who create and destroy in seconds where they require months or years, who defy their science with the flick of a wand, who possess a power beyond their narrow-minded comprehension—why should we cower in the shadows, as though_ we _are the weak ones?_

Riddle’s voice had risen to nearly a shout, words pouring out of him like rain from storm clouds; Harry, despite himself, was rapt at his sheer passion. When he spoke again, however, it was soft and deliberate.

_ I digress. My main point was that Lord Voldemort has made a mockery of my goals, but although he is insane, he is still incredibly powerful. You cannot hope to defeat him with a mere schoolboy’s training. I am offering my assistance in finding the horcruxes and defeating Voldemort, because you don’t have a chance alone… and neither do I, to be honest with you. _

Harry rubbed at his inflamed scar, thinking. He wanted to fight Riddle about what he had said about the Muggles on principle, but most of his points were  _ technically _ true, and Harry wasn’t sure how to argue against them. Although there was always the alternative of wizards and Muggles living in harmony, even Harry knew that was a faraway dream. They couldn’t live among themselves without fighting, whether it was over blood status or skin colour; why would they cooperate peacefully with each other? 

“Wizards are the same, though,” he said. “They just fight over magic and blood status instead. You’re a half-blood. You know ‘pure blood’ is bollocks.”

_ Partially correct.  _ Riddle sounded pleased.  _ My platform appealed to pureblood supremacy—which, as you eloquently put it, is “bollocks”—because purebloods were my staunchest supporters, and it would be a misstep to alienate them. However, the real problem with Muggleborns and half-bloods is their connection to the Muggle world. They would have us bury our traditions and expose us to the Muggle world for their comfort. _

“You can’t expect them to cut off their own friends and families!”

_ But they can expect us to cut off our heritage? Put ourselves at risk? _

Harry scowled. Arguing with Riddle was getting him nowhere, so he decided to focus on the latter half of his speech. “I do have a chance without you,” he said irritably. “I’m not fighting Voldemort alone. I have Dumbledore and the Order, and the Ministry, too, sort of, I guess.”

_ Dumbledore is one man, _ Riddle said.  _ His motley band of vigilantes cannot hold up to the Death Eaters for long. They are trained, ruthless, and uninhibited by artificial, political classifications of magic. The Ministry has always been incompetent. It is likely they will fall under Voldemort’s control sooner or later. Look how they reacted to his return. Look how the Hogwarts teachers, too, are ignoring the Death Eater in their midst. It would be easy enough to check his forearm, but they dismiss you. They take you for a child, when you have faced Voldemort time after time. Do you really want to rely on them? _

He… had a point.

Harry wasn’t stupid. He knew Riddle was trying to manipulate him, but he still had a point: the Ministry was incompetent. Even before the disastrous events of fourth and fifth year, they had been sitting pretty in Lucius Malfoy’s pocket, with people like Umbridge and Macnair amongst their ranks. The corruption running rampant had freed dozens of Death Eaters with money and influence, yet innocents had been left to rot in Azkaban without trial—the remainder of Azkaban, anyway, since the Dementors had gone rogue, just like Dumbledore had predicted. 

If the Ministry had been competent from the beginning, who knew how much less powerful Voldemort would have been? His following would have been torn apart, weakened physically and mentally from years in Azkaban, demoralised from the odds stacked against them. Maybe, if they had dealt with the threat, he could have been having a normal sixth year rather than being expected to save the world.

The Order wasn’t perfect, either. Despite the events of last year, they kept treating him like he was fragile, unprepared for the realities of war, though he was the one who had been thwarting Voldemort every year from the age of eleven. Who knew if they would listen to him in the future? It was obvious that Malfoy was a Death Eater, and—like Riddle said—it would be easy enough to check, but no one believed him. Hell, his own friends thought he was being ridiculous.

“Fine, you’re right,” Harry admitted. “I reckon you’d be pretty bloody useful to have on my side. But what’s stopping you from turning on me and taking Voldemort’s place as the next Dark Lord? What’s in it for you?”

_ I aim to be a politician, to pick up where I left off, _ Riddle said smoothly. Harry opened his mouth to protest, but he ploughed onward.  _ My goals would be achieved through legitimate channels. You may disagree with them, but the population of Wizarding Britain should be able to choose how their government is run, no? If you acquire me a body, I would be happy to make a vow, _ he added.

“I’m not killing anyone for you.”

_What about a Death Eater?_ _Surely you wouldn’t value the life of a murderer and torturer over an ally._

Harry scoffed. “You’re a murderer and torturer, too, Riddle.”

_ I’m a murderer and torturer on  _ your  _ side. You need me as an ally, Harry, and you need the Death Eaters gone. Why not kill two birds with one stone? If you win—which you definitely will, with me on your side—they would be receiving the Kiss regardless. _

When he put it like that…

Harry’s head spun.

On one hand, Riddle was dangerous. Honestly, “dangerous” was an understatement—the man was deadly. Voldemort might have been such a monster that his very name struck terror through most of the Wizarding World, but Riddle was a honey-sweet poison, gentle and insidious. You wouldn’t know he had come for you until your heart was beating its own funeral march.

On the other hand… his help was invaluable. What had the diary horcrux said?  _ “Voldemort is my past, present, and future.” _ He knew Voldemort inside and out. He knew Voldemort’s tactics, his strengths and his weaknesses. He knew the method to Voldemort’s madness, if there was any.

Most importantly, he knew where the horcruxes were.

Harry closed his eyes.

“… We have a deal.”

In his head, Riddle smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now have a beta! Shoutout to [diki777](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diki777) for the help.

_“Do you feel sorry for him, Harry?”_

_Riddle’s hot breath ghosted over his skin, nails digging painfully into his face. He wanted to wake up, to escape the slit-pupiled, scarlet gaze burning through his skull to peer into his brain, but he couldn’t move. His feet were rooted to the spot._

It’s just a dream.

_“Do you want to hurt him again?”_

_Riddle leaned closer. His tone was conversational, as if he were asking about the weather, and his mouth was a hair’s breadth away._

Wake up.

_“Do you want to kill him?”_

Wake up, you idiot.

_“Are you like me, Harry?”_

Harry shot up in bed, heart caught in his throat. He was half-expecting to see Riddle standing in front of him, lips nearly on his, too close for comfort, but there was nothing except the scarlet canopy of his bed curtains. It was just a nightmare—a silly, stupid nightmare caused by the stress of yesterday’s events. 

Flopping back onto his pillow, he let out a groan. He felt like he hadn’t slept at all. Riddle’s face danced behind his eyelids whenever he tried to close his eyes, and after a few minutes of tossing and turning, he knew that he wouldn’t be going back to sleep anytime soon. 

_Good morning._

Riddle’s tone was polite and conversational—and identical to the one he had spoken with in the nightmare. Harry tamped down on a shudder.

“Good morning,” he said hoarsely. He sat up, stifling a yawn, and reached for his wand to cast a _Tempus_ charm. The time was 6:17 AM, more than a couple of hours before class started. Maybe he would fetch breakfast in the kitchens, rather than face the stares and whispers waiting for him at the Great Hall. Knowing the Hogwarts rumour mill, countless exaggerated tales of the _Sectumsempra_ incident had already made their way around the student body, with Harry once again assumed to be the Dark Lord’s second coming. What was worse was that, thanks to Riddle’s presence in his head, they were closer to the truth than they realised.

Harry kicked his blankets away. As quietly as possible, he stood up, grabbed his Invisibility Cloak and wand, pulled the Cloak over his head, and padded down the stairs. He pushed the portrait aside, the Fat Lady mumbling incomprehensibly in her sleep.

 _You should head to the Room of Requirement,_ Riddle said suddenly.

“Why?” Harry whispered, frowning. A portrait of a stern-looking witch cracked an eye open at his voice and blinked in surprise when she saw no one. “D’you need something?”

_I have a plan to find out what Draco Malfoy has been tasked with—but first, I need your cooperation._

The nightmare Riddle’s words echoed in his mind ( _“Do you want to hurt him again, Harry?”_ ), and he winced. He wanted to say no, to prove—mostly to himself—that he wasn’t like Riddle at all, but he had been trying to find out what Malfoy had been up to since the beginning of the year, and now, Riddle was practically handing him the information on a silver platter. It was an offer he would be a fool to refuse. 

“Alright,” he said cautiously. He turned the corner that led to the Room of Requirement, instead of taking the staircase downstairs to the kitchens. “What’s your plan?”

* * *

“This is a terrible plan,” Harry snapped, fists clenching around the edge of the table. “Terrible, and dangerous, and definitely going to get me expelled.” 

Riddle, the bastard, was more amused at his outburst than anything. _Dumbledore would never expel his precious Chosen One. Besides, you’re hardly averse to a little bit of danger, are you? You were disappointed when I mentioned there wouldn’t be any foolhardy, impractical risk-taking involved._

“You want me to master the Memory Charm in _three_ days and use it on Malfoy. Tell me how that’s not ‘foolhardy, impractical risk-taking’?”

 _It’s_ calculated _risk-taking,_ Riddle said loftily. _I happen to be an excellent teacher, and you have considerable prowess at Charms. Besides, if the worst comes to the worst, I can always take over and do it myself—with your permission, of course,_ he added.

“No.” How stupid did Riddle think he was? Ally or not, he wasn’t letting any version of Voldemort possess him.

 _You had better learn quickly, then._ Riddle seemed unfazed by his refusal, but his voice turned serious. _Let’s begin. Contrary to popular belief, the Memory Charm does not require the mastery of Mind Arts, at least for recent, surface-level memories. While casting the spell, you will need to focus clearly and completely on the memories you want to remove. Never allow your thoughts to wander._

“That’s it?” 

_I have told you the basics, which are all you will be requiring,_ Riddle said. _Malfoy will be in the hospital wing for a week—possibly less, due to his experience with dark magic. His days are bound to be repetitive, so his mind will naturally fill in the gaps, making it harder to realise that a memory has been removed._

Harry nodded slowly. Although he was reluctant to admit it, Riddle was a fairly good teacher—better than Snape, at least. He looked at the book lying open on the table; a small, moving diagram depicted the brain-shaped wand movement required. 

_Of course, you will need to practice the spell on someone who is able to communicate. What about one of your friends?_

“I’m not going to mess with any of my friends’ minds.” His tone held no room for argument.

_The house elf—_

“No.”

Riddle sighed. _I see why you would not want to practice the Memory Charm on your friends, but a house elf is born and raised to serve. If you asked it, I’m certain it would agree._

“Dobby is my friend, too.”

 _Your—_ Riddle cut himself off, exasperated. _Never mind. You told me you sent two house elves to watch Malfoy. What about the other elf? Don’t tell me that one is your friend as well._

Harry scowled. He didn’t want to see Kreacher’s face at all. “No, he’s not,” he said shortly.

_Well, there you have it—someone to practice on._

His problem had practically solved itself, but still… Harry hesitated. What if he hurt Kreacher? He hated the elf for what he had done, but he didn’t want to turn him into a braindead, drooling mess. 

_You can practice on the elf, doing it little to no harm,_ Riddle said, and although his voice was blandly pleasant, Harry could sense his frustration coming to a boil, _or you can do nothing, knowing that Malfoy is likely attempting to murder Slughorn—that he has nearly killed two people. When—when, not if—he finds the third, or the fourth, or the fifth, Harry… will you be able to live without your regret consuming you?_

Once again, Harry’s fists were curled around the edge of the table, his knuckles white. Riddle was right. Riddle was right, and a horrible, manipulative bastard, and Harry closed his eyes to replay the look on Riddle’s face when he had punched him in the nose. Thank Merlin and Morgana he apparently didn’t know the role Kreacher had played in—“Fine,” he bit out.

_Thank you._

Harry ignored Riddle, opening his eyes. “Kreacher!” 

With an ear-splitting crack, the house elf appeared to his left. “Master has called?” he said, giving Harry a look of utter disdain. Under his breath—though loud enough to be audible—he added, “Filthy half-blood Master, putting the name of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black to shame… Oh, what would Mistress think…”

 _What sort of house elf do you_ own _?_

Riddle’s frustration was comical enough that Harry had to suppress a snicker. “He’s mental,” he said. “Lived alone in the Blacks’ house for years, taking orders from a portrait.” 

“Master is talking to himself, mad half-blood Master… Kreacher is wishing Mistress Walburga was still around, so he won’t be having to listen to mad half-blood Master… If only blood traitor Master Siriu—”

“Don’t fucking talk about Sirius.” Harry’s amusement vanished without a trace. There was a hint of curiosity from Riddle at his vehemence, though thankfully, the man didn’t ask. He glared at Kreacher. “Kreacher, I order you to keep everything I do and tell you in this room a secret. Do you understand?”

Kreacher nodded, his ears flapping with the motion, and returned to muttering insults under his breath. Harry did his best to tune him out.

“Will he forget the order?” he asked Riddle.

_Mentally? Yes. However, its magic will remember and prevent it from disobeying. Still, you can always repeat the order after you’re finished, if it settles your mind._

“I’m going to practice the Memory Charm on you. Don’t move,” Harry told Kreacher, who glowered but didn’t protest, except for his usual insults. Drawing his wand and pointing it at Kreacher, he recalled Riddle’s explanation: _Focus clearly and completely on the memories you want to remove._

 _Start slow. Removing the last ten seconds will do,_ Riddle interjected.

“Ten seconds isn’t a lot,” Harry said, slightly disappointed. “What about a minute?”

_Do you want the elf to keep its brain or not?_

Harry backed down, chastened. He closed his eyes, picturing the last ten seconds. It was easy enough—his complaint, Riddle’s voice in his head… “ _Obliviate_ ,” he said.

When he opened his eyes, Kreacher was still glowering, the signature glassy expression of Memory Charmed victims absent. “Stupid filthy half-blood Master, he is not knowing magic… Failure to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black… Blood traitors and Squibs everywhere, oh…” 

_Why don’t you order the elf to stop insulting you?_ Riddle wondered. _Disregard it. No wizard would master the Memory Charm on their first attempt, unless they were already well-versed in the Mind Arts. Were you focusing completely? What were the scenes you focused on?_

“Shut up, Kreacher. Don’t say a word.” Kreacher stuffed his ears into his mouth, his speech turning unintelligible. To Riddle, Harry said, “He has a way of getting around orders. Anyway… I’m pretty sure I was focusing completely. The last ten seconds—back when I said the spell, I mean—I wanted to try a minute instead of ten seconds, and you asked me if I wanted Kreacher to keep his brain or not.”

 _Ah, there’s your mistake. My words were not part of Kreacher’s memories, so the spell failed._ _Try again._

Harry pictured the last ten seconds—Kreacher’s insults to his intelligence, his own words to Kreacher and then Riddle… The elf looked ridiculous with his ears stuffed in his mouth, so he closed his eyes, trying to remain focused. “ _Obliviate_.”

The spell still hadn’t taken effect. Harry groaned, letting his wand arm drop.

 _Patience,_ Riddle said. _If you have meditated before—though I rather doubt you have—the Memory Charm operates similarly. You will need plenty of practice to achieve the intense, single-minded focus required. It would be easier if your target was cooperative,_ he added.

“Malfoy won’t exactly be cooperative, either,” Harry said. Kreacher’s eyes bulged at the name, agitation pitching his voice louder.

_Fair enough; just keep practicing. Tell the elf a different keyword every time you cast, so you will know whether you have over- or underpowered the spell._

With a sigh, Harry pointed his wand again, resigned to the slog ahead of him. “Kreacher, I’m going to tell you a keyword every time I cast the Memory Charm. Tell me when I ask you… and don’t say anything else. This one is ‘Snitch’,” he said. “ _Obliviate!_ ”

It took half a dozen attempts before Kreacher finally slid into the blank-faced, glassy expression that told Harry the Memory Charm had worked. “Yes!” Harry crowed, while the elf blinked in confusion, glancing around the Room of Requirement. “How was that?”

_Ask for the keyword._

“Kreacher, what did I say right about a minute ago?”

Kreacher scowled, remaining silent. Harry was bemused for a moment until the realisation struck him. He grinned. “He can’t talk, because he doesn’t remember the keyword.”

 _Good work._ Riddle sounded pleased. Harry’s grin widened—then, realising who had just complimented him, he quickly wiped the smile off of his face. _You should go to class. We will resume practice tonight, perhaps advancing to thirty seconds._

“Thirty _seconds_?” Harry really didn’t want to inch his way up, second by second. “I’m not breaking Kreacher’s brain, am I, so why can’t I try a few minutes?”

 _Thirty seconds,_ Riddle repeated firmly. _This is the best way to teach you precision. You don’t want Malfoy noticing that something is wrong. The Malfoys are a high-profile, politically involved family; they know the signs of memory modification._

Harry deflated, excitement wearing off. “Right. Kreacher, you can go back to the kitchens, I guess. Again, don’t let anyone know about what happened in this room.”

After shooting Harry a final, hateful look, Kreacher vanished. Harry cast a quick _Tempus_ ; it was only 7:48 AM, leaving him plenty of time to get breakfast in the kitchens… and to talk to Dobby.

* * *

“You didn’t show up to breakfast,” Hermione accused, sliding into the seat beside Harry. Clearly, her curiosity had overpowered her indignation. He glanced at Ron, who shrugged helplessly from where he had paired up with Ernie Macmillan.

“Didn’t feel like getting stared at,” Harry said. Even now, Blaise Zabini was shooting him strange, intrigued glances whenever he thought Harry wasn’t looking, and Lisa Turpin had squeaked when he had walked past her. Maybe he would head to the kitchens for lunch, too. The rest of the Slytherins would be insufferable.

Slughorn began his lecture. Hermione, who had opened her mouth to respond, sighed and turned to him with her quill poised in hand. Harry tried to do the same—without the Half-Blood Prince’s book at his disposal, he needed all the Potions help he could get—but his mind was elsewhere. Every time he glanced at his watch, the second hand seemed to be moving slower than before.

 _Calm down,_ Riddle said abruptly. _You’ll look suspicious. Slughorn is smarter than you would think._

Although he heeded the advice as best as he could, the lesson passed by at a snail’s pace. It was only Riddle’s warning that kept Harry in his seat when Slughorn jovially dismissed the class. Suppressing the urge to tell Ron and Hermione to hurry up, he waited for them to pack their things like he always did. The moment the trio were out of the classroom, though, far away from Slughorn’s gaze, Harry mumbled something about needing to return a book to the library and dashed off. 

Dobby had been instructed to wait in the Room of Requirement. Harry raced upstairs; by the time he reached the seventh floor, his heart was hammering from both anticipation and exertion. He quickly paced in front of the wall, wrenched open the door, and entered.

“Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby squeaked upon seeing him, holding up a tiny vial of odorless, clear liquid. “Dobby has taken the potion from Sluggy’s room, just like Harry Potter has asked him to!”

Harry’s face broke out into a relieved grin. Finally, after months of hopelessly piecing clues together, he could put an end to whatever Malfoy was up to, once and for all.


	4. Chapter 4

_“Do you want to hurt me, Harry?”_

_Riddle was pinned to the tree by the throat, gazing down at him through the cold darkness of his eyes. He could feel the monster’s heartbeat pounding beneath his fingers, like the steady flickering of flame. If he snuffed it quickly enough, maybe he wouldn’t get burnt._

_“Do you want to kill me?”_

_What was a monster’s life to the thousands he had taken? What was a monster’s life to the thousands he would take?_

_“Yes.”_

_Riddle’s answering smile was all teeth. The painstakingly crafted mask of humanity fell away to reveal a fiendish, unrestrained delight that twisted his handsome face into a grotesquerie._

_“Kill me, then.”_

_He did._

_His hands clamped down, squeezing, smothering until the flame sputtered out. Riddle simply laughed, laughed and laughed until his voice gave out, his gaze turned glassy, his body went limp—_

“Good luck, Captain!”

A cheery voice and a clap on the shoulder broke Harry out of his daze. He blinked and looked around to see Ginny standing behind him, her smile playful, her brown eyes warm. Despite the remnants of Riddle’s laughter echoing in his ears, his heart leapt, and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling back. Strangely, there was a spark of curiosity from Riddle.

“I should be telling you that,” he said wryly.

“You’re the one who’s got to pickle toad hearts with Snape while we kick Ravenclaw’s arse.” Ginny leaned over, snagging a slice of grapefruit from Harry’s untouched plate. “See you when we win. Don’t let the git poison you.”

Popping the grapefruit into her mouth, she strode off into the pale May sunshine to join the rest of the Quidditch team, her ponytail swinging behind her. Harry watched her leave, wishing he could join her. Instead, he would have to wait the match out in Snape’s cold, gloomy office as Snape put him to the most unpleasant work he could think of.

 _I’ve seen that girl in memories,_ Riddle spoke up. _She had my diary when she was a child._

Harry glanced at Hermione from the corner of his eye, wishing he could tell Riddle to leave Ginny alone out loud. Hadn’t he done enough? He glowered at his toast, hoping Riddle would get the message.

Riddle laughed mockingly. A broken reflection of the sound played in Harry’s mind; he suppressed a shudder. _Don’t worry, hero. Your lady love won’t meet her death at my hands._

“You aren’t eating,” Hermione remarked before Harry could snap back at Riddle. “Are you alright, Harry? I haven’t seen you around much, you know. If it’s something to do with Malfoy again—”

“It’s not,” Harry said shortly. Hermione gave him an affronted look, and he sighed, setting down his fork. “Sorry. I’m just busy with… the stuff Dumbledore has been teaching me about. Trying to figure out where he could’ve hidden them.”

Hermione’s face softened. Harry felt a pang of guilt at lying to one of his best friends, though he quickly shoved it down. She wouldn’t understand—he was doing what he had to do to protect the school from Voldemort’s schemes.

“Well, don’t overwork yourself,” she said. She glanced at the High Table, where the Headmaster’s golden chair lay empty. “I’m sure Dumbledore wouldn’t want you to lock yourself away, researching.”

“Coming from you?” Harry grinned. Hermione huffed, batting at his shoulder in faux-offence.

Breakfast passed quicker than Harry would have liked. Soon, the students started filtering out of the Great Hall, decked in their hats and rosettes, waving their flags and banners. Their excited chatter filled the air, betting on who would win, gossiping about Michael Corner’s relationship with Cho Chang, claiming Gryffindor didn’t have a chance without Harry Potter…

Shooting a final glance at the open double doors that lead to the Quidditch pitch, spilling light and laughter, Harry said goodbye to Hermione and left for the dungeons.

* * *

“Ah, Potter.”

Snape was seated behind his desk, fingers steepled together. Curiosity emanated from Riddle at the sight of him, but Harry ignored the emotion to survey the room. Although he had moved to the Defence classroom floors above, Snape had remained in his unpleasantly familiar office; Harry already missed the brightness and bustle of the Great Hall. The only difference from last year was a large stack of cobwebbed boxes piled on a table in the corner. They had an aura of tedious, hard, and pointless labour about them.

“Mr. Filch has been looking for someone to clear out these old files,” Snape said. “They are the records of other Hogwarts wrongdoers and their punishments. Where the ink has grown faint, or the cards have suffered damage from mice, we would like you to copy out the crimes and punishments afresh, and, making sure that they are in alphabetical order, replace them in the boxes. You will not use magic.”

“Right, Professor.” Harry tried to add as much contempt as he could into the last three syllables. Riddle made an amused sound in the back of his head, though his focus was still on Snape. Harry’s curiosity was piqued. What did Riddle want from the man?

A malicious smile twitched to life on Snape’s lips. “I thought you could start with boxes one thousand and twelve to one thousand and fifty-six. You will find some familiar names in there, which should add interest to the task. Here, you see…” He pulled out a card from one of the topmost boxes with a flourish and read, “ _‘James Potter and Sirius Black. Apprehended using an illegal hex upon Bertram Aubrey. Aubrey’s head twice normal size. Double detention_.’” Snape sneered. “It must be such a comfort to think that, though they are gone, a record of their great achievements remains…”

Harry felt a boiling sensation in the pit of his stomach. Biting his tongue to prevent himself from retaliating, he sat down in front of the boxes, pulled one toward him, and started on his work.

 _I know this man,_ Riddle said. _At least, my soul knows this man. Is he one of mine? Why is Dumbledore allowing a Death Eater to teach at Hogwarts—unless he happens to be a spy?_

Harry jerked his head in a minute nod. He wanted to ask what Riddle meant about his _soul_ knowing Snape—did the Dark Mark go soul-deep?—but Snape had ears like a bat and Legilimency to boot. Of all the people Harry didn’t want knowing about Riddle, he was second only to Voldemort himself.

_Interesting…_

Riddle subsided into silence. Resigned to the drudge, Harry picked up the next card.

The detention seemed to last forever. Riddle gave off an aura of boredom as Harry worked his way through the box, his heart giving a jolt whenever he saw the names of his father and his friends—which was often. While he copied out their various offences, he couldn’t stop himself from glancing up at the clock every few minutes, wondering what was happening outside. The match would have started by now.

On and on the minutes ticked past, agonisingly slow, until they spilled into hours: ten o’clock… half past ten… eleven o’clock…

At ten past one, Snape finally looked up from his desk.

“I think that will do,” he said. “Mark the place you have reached. You will continue at ten o’clock next Saturday.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry stuffed a bent card into the box at random and hurried out of the door before Snape could change his mind. He raced back up the stone steps, straining his ears to hear a sound from the pitch, but all was quiet. It was over, then. Hesitating outside the crowded Great Hall, he headed for the marble staircase leading up to Gryffindor tower; whether they had won or lost, the team usually celebrated or commiserated in their own common room.

“That was a waste of time.”

The words stopped him in his tracks.

Nearly four days with Riddle meant that Harry had gotten used to the voice in his head, an unwanted, arrogant, and somewhat helpful companion to his thoughts. This, though—this came from directly behind Harry, like Riddle was _there_.

He turned around.

Riddle was gazing through a window, translucent in the daylight. Hazy though he appeared, his handsomeness was evident in the angles of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the slope of his nose. One hand rested on the sill, the other busy tracing a pattern on the pane, and fascination poured off him in droves.

“What are you doing?” Harry hissed, glancing around the room to ensure that no one was watching. He took a step forward. “Did you—did you kill someone without me realising? Ginny? What the hell have you done?”

“No,” Riddle said. “I took a small amount of energy from Professor… Snape, was it? He’ll survive. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to interact with the world,” he added in a murmur.

Harry’s shoulders slumped in relief, but he didn’t tear his eyes away from Riddle. A smile had graced his features—a small, secret quirk of the lips, a stark contrast to the dazzling flash of charm and teeth he often employed, or even the shark’s bloodthirsty grin Harry had seen in his nightmares. His expression, his delight, was genuine.

It was almost… human.

Had he been awake inside the horcrux? Unable to communicate, to move, to feel? Harry couldn’t imagine. He stared at Riddle, watching him trail his fingers over glass, stone, everything he could, and suddenly felt like he was intruding.

“Er,” he said.

Riddle’s head snapped toward him. There was a flicker of annoyance, but he only said, “I apologise. I got carried away. Perhaps we should head upstairs; I need to conserve my energy, so I won’t be manifesting unless necessary.”

Harry nodded awkwardly, and Riddle disappeared. Still, as he turned around to race up the stairs to the Gryffindor common room, his discomfort lingered. The sight of Riddle never left his mind.

“Quid agis?” he said tentatively to the Fat Lady, wondering what he would find inside.

Her face was unreadable. “You’ll see,” she said, swinging forward.

An aura of solemnity hung over the common room. Harry’s heart sank. Everyone was talking quietly amongst themselves, complaints and tears were being shed, and more than a few Gryffindors shot him dirty looks. Ron and Hermione had claimed their usual spot by the fireplace, but Ginny was nowhere to be seen.

Ignoring the eyes on him, Harry walked over to his friends. “What happened?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Ravenclaw won,” Ron said glumly. From where she had her hand on his arm, Hermione nodded, downcast. “We were a hundred and thirty points ahead, but Chang beat Ginny to the Snitch.”

Taking the armchair opposite him, Harry rubbed at his temples. “Where’s Ginny?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. “She was really upset. She told us to leave her alone and stormed off somewhere.”

“Maybe if our _Captain_ had been playing Seeker instead of cursing people in girls’ bathrooms,” someone jeered in the background.

Harry’s jaw clenched. He didn’t recognise the boy who had spoken up, but he clearly wasn’t alone in his opinion, judging by the whispers that had broken out in turn.

What was worse was that they were _right_. It was his fault. He had failed as Captain. If he had been there, Gryffindor would have won. Ginny was good at playing Seeker, but Chasing was where she truly thrived. With her and Harry on the field, they would be celebrating right now, winners of the Quidditch Cup… and maybe, caught up in the thrill of victory, he might have worked up the courage to kiss her…

“Oi, Stebbins, fuck off,” Ron snapped. “Harry, just ignore him—”

“It’s fine,” Harry said shortly. He stood up. Whatever his Housemates thought of him, he didn’t have time for their petty squabbles; he had a Death Eater to catch. “I’m going to the library. See you later.”

* * *

It was one in the morning when Harry carefully pushed open one of the Hospital Wing’s double doors, Invisibility Cloak concealing him, Riddle hovering close by. He had informed Harry that the entrance was free of wards or charms that would alert Madam Pomfrey to the intrusion, but advised him to keep his guard up regardless. The door clicked shut quietly behind him as he slipped through the opening, his pulse hammering in anticipation.

Students seldom stayed overnight in the Hospital Wing. Harry, walking through the room, needed only to glance past a few bed curtains before he found Malfoy’s bed.

Malfoy was fast asleep, bandages peering out from the sleeves of his silken blue pyjamas. Even in slumber, he looked troubled, his brow wrinkled, his breathing ragged. Did being a Death Eater weigh heavily on his conscience? Harry rather doubted it. He lifted his wand.

“ _Stupefy_ ,” he whispered. A jet of red light struck Malfoy in the chest; he went limp. Harry hefted Malfoy out of bed by the arms. The other boy was lighter than he had expected. Managing to cover him with the Cloak, he wrapped an arm around Malfoy’s shoulders to secure him and set off for the exit.

By the time he reached the abandoned classroom Riddle had settled on, halfway across the castle, Harry was exhausted. Of course, Riddle hadn’t offered to help, despite the fact that he could clearly move things in his incorporeal form. Harry hadn’t bothered asking him, either. He knew what the bastard’s answer would be.

Still… he had made it. He had Malfoy—and now, he was going to make the baby Death Eater talk.

Pulling the Cloak off, Harry shoved Malfoy into a chair and Silenced the classroom’s door. “ _Incarcerous_ ,” he said, ropes wrapping around Malfoy’s unconscious body in response.

“Very good,” Riddle murmured. He strode forward to loom behind Malfoy, his dark eyes intent on Harry. In the dim, silvery moonlight, his elegant features were as clear as day, unaffected by the shadows that danced over Malfoy’s slack face. “The Veritaserum, Harry. Precisely three drops—you don’t want the mediwitch noticing something amiss in his blood.”

Harry scooped out the tiny vial from his pocket. Uncorking it, he pried open Malfoy’s jaw with a hand and bent down. His hands were trembling slightly; he took a moment to steady them, then tilted the vial.

Drop by drop, the Veritaserum fell onto Malfoy’s tongue. After the third one, he straightened up, setting the vial aside.

With a slow exhale, Harry pointed his wand at Malfoy’s chest.

“ _Rennervate_.”


	5. Chapter 5

Grey eyes flew open, bleary and confused—only to widen in shock at the sight awaiting them.

“POTTER!”

Harry lowered his wand. “Morning, Malfoy. Nice to see you again.”

“Potter,” Malfoy growled, straining against his confines, “I’m going to fucking kill you when I’m out of here. I’m going to serve your head to the Dark Lord on a fucking plat—”

“Daddy’s in prison, so you have to go running to Voldemort now, huh? Are you his loyal little lapdog?”

“I’m no one’s lapdog! You won’t get away with this, Potter. I’m going to get them to throw you out on your prophesied arse, if you’re still alive after I’m done with you.”

“Big words. You and whose army? Can’t throw your weight around when your father’s a disgrace to his family n—”

Malfoy tried to lunge at him, nearly tipping the chair over. His pale, pointed face was flushed pink and twisted into a snarl of utter fury. Harry took a step back, clutching his wand tighter. He had rarely seen Malfoy so angry before.

“Enough,” Riddle cut in. Malfoy nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound. He craned his neck to try to see behind himself, where Riddle was standing, hands resting on the back of the chair, gaze flicking between Harry and Malfoy as if he was watching a mildly interesting Quidditch match. “Don’t waste time bickering. Start asking questions. I suggest you keep them simple, so he doesn’t try to talk around them.”

Malfoy jerked his head around to face Harry. “Who is that? Did you get one of your Mudblood friends from the Order to join you?”

The burst of anger that exploded over Harry barely made a dent in Riddle’s composure. He pursed his lips, eyes flashing, and coldly said, “Continue.”

“Right,” Harry said hastily. He didn’t want to spend the rest of the night Malfoy’s body. “Are you a Death Eater?”

“Yes.” The word seemed to escape from Malfoy’s lips unthinkingly, and fury transformed into horror. He stared up at Harry. “What the _fuck_? Did you dose me with Veritaserum, you—you—?”

“Sorry,” Harry said flippantly. A vicious satisfaction coursed through him. Everyone else had been blind to the Death Eater in their midst, considering him paranoid, refusing to believe him, but he had been right the entire time.

He couldn’t bask in his victory for long, though. He had to find out what Malfoy was actually up to.

“What’s the task Voldemort wants you to do?”

Malfoy’s jaw worked. Although he was clearly trying to keep his mouth shut, the Veritaserum forced the admission out of him in a rush.

“He wants me to kill Dumbledore!”

“…What?”

Harry gaped, thunderstruck.

Riddle had been certain Voldemort wanted to kill Slughorn, preventing information about his horcruxes from reaching Dumbledore’s ears. The necklace could have been a gift to him, the poison had been in his mead—how could it have been anyone else? How could it have been _Dumbledore_ , the man Voldemort himself was afraid of?

“Lord Voldemort is sending a schoolboy to run his errands, hmm? Why would he pick _you_ to kill his strongest enemy?”

It was Riddle who spoke up, keeping his tone carefully neutral. Only their connection told Harry of the incredulity swirling inside him.

“Because he’s”—Malfoy nearly choked on the sentence—“he’s punishing my father for failing him last year, at the Ministry. He’ll kill me if I don’t. He’ll kill me!”

He struggled against the ropes binding him, desperate, frantic. Harry couldn’t help feeling a twinge of pity at the sight.

“Dumbledore could protect you,” he said.

“He’ll just kill my family!” Malfoy yelled. “Dumbledore can’t protect me or my family for shit, Potter. He couldn’t even protect your Mudblood mo—”

Harry hadn’t even realised that he had gone for his wand until a hand clamped around his wrist.

“Don’t,” Riddle said softly. His skin was neither warm nor cool; it just _was_. His grip, though, was firm and steady, a stark contrast to the heat smoldering in Harry’s chest, begging him to hex Malfoy into a giant lump. “We need him unharmed… for now.”

Their eyes met. Shoulders slumping, Harry nodded. Riddle’s hand lingered for a long moment, then slowly slid down to Harry’s fingertips before letting go. He stepped away, returning to his position behind Malfoy’s chair.

“Right.” Harry sighed, turning back to Malfoy. “What are you doing in the Room of Requirement all the time?”

“The Room of Requirement?”

“Don’t play dumb. The room on the seventh floor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy teaching trolls ballet. What are you doing there?”

“I was fixing a cabinet,” Malfoy snapped. He was warier now, glancing between Harry’s lowered wand and his face.

“What cabinet?”

“A Vanishing Cabinet.”

“What’s a Vanishing Cabinet?” Harry said, exasperated. Getting answers from Malfoy was like pulling teeth, even with the Veritaserum preventing him from lying.

It was Riddle who answered, however. “A Vanishing Cabinet acts as a passageway between two places. What are you planning to use it for? To where are you connecting it?” He aimed the questions at Malfoy.

“I’m going to let Death Eaters into the school from Borgin and Burke’s,” Malfoy bit out.

The corners of Riddle’s lips curled slightly at the name. Harry remembered that he had worked at Borgin and Burke’s after graduating, though he wasn’t sure what was amusing about the situation. To think of Death Eaters in the halls of Hogwarts, killing his friends, destroying his home… he was suddenly grateful he had decided to go through with Riddle’s plan.

“What’d you think to get inside the Room?” Harry asked, remembering the times he had spent pacing in front of the wall, trying to get it to reveal Malfoy’s hiding place without avail.

“‘I need a place to hide something’,” Malfoy said.

It was the very same thought Harry had used while hiding the Half-Blood Prince’s book—the very same room he had found the diadem in. A Vanishing Cabinet would be nearly impossible to notice amidst the haphazard, overflowing stacks of furniture.

“Where exactly in the Room did you hide it? Make the directions clear,” Riddle interjected. Harry appreciated the question—he would rather not have hunted through the Room of Requirement for hours on end.

Malfoy gritted his teeth, but the words spilled from his mouth regardless. “It’s between a headless statue of a centaur and a pile of broken chairs. Walk straight from the entrance, then turn right when you see a huge stuffed troll and keep walking.” He craned his neck to look behind himself again, narrowing his eyes at Riddle. “Who are you, anyway? I’ve never seen you before.”

“I’m afraid we ask the questions here,” Riddle said smoothly. “Go on, Harry.”

“How are you going to kill Dumbledore?” Harry said. Despite being armed with the knowledge of Malfoy’s scheme, down to the specific locations, he didn’t know how he would stop him. After all, Dumbledore would hardly approve of tying up Malfoy and force-feeding him Veritaserum to interrogate him.

“I don’t know.” The admission was low, reluctant as a Veritaserum-induced statement could be. Malfoy looked away, blinking hard. The scene in Myrtle’s bathroom returned to Harry’s mind: Malfoy sobbing in front of the mirror, terrified of being killed, hopeless and helpless. He was obviously in over his head. Harry was almost sorry for him, though after the way Malfoy had reacted last time, it was best to keep his sympathy to himself.

Still… he had to try, even if Malfoy was, well, Malfoy. No one deserved to be killed by Voldemort.

“Maybe we can get your mum out without Voldemort noticing,” he offered.

“Yes, that’s going to be easy, with him living in our _house_ and reading our minds.” Malfoy’s laughter was jagged, humourless. “I don’t need your fucking pity. You’re going to lose, Potter. No one can stand against the Dark Lord— _no one_. He’ll kill you and your Mudblood friends. He’ll take over the world.” He grinned sharply. “At least if I fail and he kills me, I won’t die a blood traitor like you.”

Any sympathy Harry had for Malfoy vanished. “Fine,” he said shortly. “Just know you’ve dug your own grave. Even Voldemort’s afraid of Dumbledore. _You_ don’t have a chance.”

“Are we done?” Malfoy drawled. The airiness of his tone couldn’t hide the tenseness in his posture, stiff enough that he could be preparing for his probable future as a corpse.

Harry paused, his thoughts running over the months of following Malfoy. There had been the visit to Borgin and Burke’s, the boasting conversation on the Hogwarts Express, the cursed necklace Katie Bell had nearly died from, the incident at Slughorn’s party with Snape…

 _Snape._ Snape had been helping Malfoy, chiding him for getting caught, talking about Unbreakable Vows made to protect him. He had to have known.

“What does Snape know?” Harry asked urgently.

“Potions. The Dark Arts. Does anyone truly know what goes on inside Snape’s head?”

“Oh, for—what does Snape know about you having to kill Dumbledore?”

“Some things. Not all of them.”

“Elaborate,” Riddle said abruptly.

Malfoy huffed. “Snape knows that I’m supposed to kill Dumbledore, and that I tried to give him the necklace and the poison, and that I’m working on something right now.”

“So… he doesn’t know about the Vanishing Cabinet, or your plan to let the Death Eaters in,” Harry said. “What about the Unbreakable Vow he took? What did he vow?”

“Took one to protect me and help me with the task,” Malfoy said, then: “How do _you_ know about that?”

“Next time you want to yell at Snape about your scheme to murder the Headmaster, Malfoy, you should probably think of using a Silencing Charm.” Harry paused. “Wait, help you? Snape has to help you kill Dumbledore?”

“Yes, if I fail.”

Harry’s head spun. Stopping Malfoy was one thing; stopping Snape was another. Snape was an adult wizard, skilled and practiced in the Dark Arts, deceptive enough to fool Dumbledore… or did Dumbledore know? Had he been bluffing about the Unbreakable Vow? Who was he fooling—Dumbledore or Voldemort? Was he playing both at the same time, waiting to see which came out victorious, pretending to have been loyal until the end?

He looked to Riddle, feeling utterly lost, but Riddle shook his head.

“We’ll discuss afterwards,” he said. “Are you finished?”

Was he? Harry had questions upon questions, but Malfoy couldn’t answer them. The only one who could was Snape, and he was extremely leery about interrogating the man who was cheating one or both of the most powerful wizards he knew. He shrugged. “I guess.”

“Well, you know what to do.”

“What? What is he going to do?” Malfoy interrupted, his voice rising an octave.

Ignoring the question, Harry raised his wand. Malfoy began struggling against his confines again, his faux-coolness falling away, his gaze darting around the room to futilely search for an escape.

“Potter, you absolute lunatic, don’t—”

“ _Silencio_ ,” Harry said. Malfoy fell silent, though his mouth kept moving, spewing insults or pleas or both; Harry didn’t care to hear him out.

 _Once you have completed the finer points of the Memory Charm, you need only focus on the beginning—and ending, if applicable—of the memory you want to erase,_ Riddle had explained. Had it been yesterday, or the day before? It felt more like a year ago.

He closed his eyes and thought back to the moment he had woken Malfoy up: the sight of him standing in front of Malfoy, wand raised; the shock that had rapidly transformed into anger; the threats and the taunts they had begun to exchange…

“ _Obliviate_.”

When he opened his eyes, a blank, glassy expression had slid over Malfoy’s features. He quickly followed up with a Stunner, and Malfoy slumped back in the chair, unconscious.

“Well done,” Riddle said, sounding pleased. “Move him back to the Hospital Wing, and we’ll begin searching for the Vanishing Cabinet.”

“ _Evanesco_.” The ropes vanished. Harry walked over to a nearby desk, where his Invisibility Cloak lay, along with the vial of Veritaserum. Tucking the vial back in his pocket, he pulled the Cloak over himself.

“Any chance you’d help me out?” he asked Riddle.

“You’re a wizard, are you not? Use your wand.”

“Bastard,” Harry muttered, much to Riddle’s amusement. With an air of resignation, he turned to Malfoy’s unconscious form, hoping the Feather-Light charm worked on humans.

* * *

The Room of Requirement was just as incredible the second time Harry entered, Riddle by his side: centuries’ worth of broken and forgotten and hidden objects, vaster than the eye could see, a city built on the foundation of childish secrets. For a second, Harry could only observe the enormity of it, slightly overwhelmed, before Riddle’s hand against his elbow snapped him back into awareness.

“Malfoy directed us to go straight from the entrance and turn right at a stuffed troll,” he said.

Harry could only nod, unable to tear his gaze from Riddle’s hand. He was oddly aware of its gentle weight on his arm, the touch lingering until the moment Riddle moved forward to wind his way through the jumble. Pulling out his wand, Harry rushed to catch up.

It took a few minutes’ walk to reach the Vanishing Cabinet. Sandwiched between the headless centaur statue and the pile of broken chairs Malfoy had mentioned, its wood was a dull, scratched-up black, and the gilding of the handles had been worn away. Still, it seemed mostly intact. Had Malfoy been close to fixing it?

Riddle pried open the cabinet doors. The interior was empty, the floor splintered, the walls narrow. “He’s far from finishing the transportation charms,” he said, running a finger across the back of a door. “The wards are fine, however.”

“How can you tell?” Harry asked.

“I don’t need a wand to sense magic, especially on objects. It does take practice… and patience.” Riddle shot him a pointed glance, though his tone lacked bite. Harry just shrugged at him. He turned his head to survey the cabinet. “Move back and try _Bombarda_.”

“Alright.” Harry took a couple of steps backwards, and Riddle joined him. He aimed his wand at the side of the Vanishing Cabinet. “ _Bombarda_!”

The spell ricocheted, blasting the headless centaur’s human torso into a heap of white dust.

Harry grimaced. “You don’t reckon _Bombarda Maxima_ would work, do you?”

“Unless you want to be dust as well, I advise against it,” Riddle said. “I don’t suppose you’ve studied wards or ward-breaking.”

“Er, wards are protective charms?” Harry offered. He had heard the term sometimes, though it hadn’t particularly caught his interest.

Riddle sighed. “Unfortunately, even I can’t teach you how to master Arithmancy and break wards in two or three days. If you could lend me your wand—”

“No,” Harry said firmly. What kind of idiot did Riddle think he was? “No. I’d rather drag the cabinet back to my dorm room with my hands.”

“Well, if you don’t find a way, then that’s what you’ll have to do,” Riddle said. He paused, his gaze intent on Harry. “There _is_ a spell that I’m certain would work, but it depends on your willingness to cast it.”

“What spell?”

“It is a lesser cousin of Fiendfyre, so to speak.” At Harry’s blank look, Riddle sighed again. “Your magical education is abysmal. Fiendfyre is cursed fire, powerful enough to destroy everything in its path unless the caster is able to maintain control. The spell I have in mind isn’t half as powerful, but it would get past the wards, at least.”

Harry frowned. “I’m not casting dark magic.”

“You would rather drag the cabinet back to your dorms than cast a single spell, just because of arbitrary, man-made classifications?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “It’s not ‘arbitrary’, Riddle. When has dark magic ever helped anyone?”

“Dark magic could help you right now,” Riddle pointed out.

“That’s not what I meant. Every dark spell I’ve come across has just been made to hurt or destroy things—the Unforgivables, _Sectumsempra_ , Fiendfyre…”

“What do you think is the difference between hurting someone with a Cutting Charm and hurting them with, say, the Cruciatus Curse?”

“You can use the Cutting Charm for other things! You can’t use the Cruciatus Curse for anything but torture.”

“Yes and no,” Riddle said. Unlike Harry, whose agitation was growing by the second, he was pleased. A small smile danced over his lips. “What about the Blasting Charm, hm? Its only purpose is to explode a target, which is inherently destructive—so why isn’t it considered dark magic?”

At that, Harry faltered. “You use the Blasting Charm to explode walls and stuff, not living things.”

“You can say the same of Fiendfyre. Nothing forces you to burn people alive, does it?”

“Why are dark wizards all complete nutters, then?” Harry snapped. “Why do they kill and torture people for fun?”

Riddle’s smile widened. “ _Emotion_ ,” he said, with the air of Crookshanks when he knocked Ron’s glass off the table. Harry decided to keep the comparison to himself.

“Emotion?” he asked.

“Yes.” Riddle leaned forward, his body uncomfortably close, his eyes bright. “Have you ever cast a Cutting Charm on a piece of fabric while angry? What do you think would happen?” Without waiting for an answer, he ploughed on. “You would tear the fabric to shreds, and if you were in the presence of a particularly jobless Hit Wizard while doing so, the Ministry could legally fine you twenty Galleons or more. Congratulations. You have dabbled in the Dark Arts.”

Harry blinked, more than a little incredulous. “That makes no sense.”

“Such is bureaucracy,” Riddle agreed. “I can’t deny that there is a difference between ‘regular’ magic and dark magic, of course, and that a larger number of dark wizards are ‘nutters’, as you delicately put it. The magic isn’t at fault, however. Tell me, Harry, why would anyone take pains to invent new spells when an angrily cast _Bombarda_ would work wonders?”

“I… don’t know.”

“Control,” Riddle breathed, and then his voice rose, words tumbling out in a torrent. “Emotions are uncontrollable, unpredictable, yet they are the _foundation_ of dark magic. If you cast _Bombarda_ while angry, you will be unable to control the results, similar to a child’s accidental magic. You might destroy the objects beside you, or the objects fifty feet from you, or the entire room around you. If you cast a dark spell while angry, however, you will only destroy what you intend to. Dark wizards tend to be unhinged because maintaining emotion _and_ control is a balancing act. Over time, they drop their caution, their control, and the emotion consumes them. No matter how much time you have spent with the Dark Arts—weeks, months, years, _centuries_ —you have not tamed the fire. You have merely contained it.”

Harry could do nothing except stare at Riddle, at the dark, burning eyes pinned on his, at the passion setting his handsome face alight. He suddenly wondered what would have happened if Riddle had been accepted as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor—if he had not become Voldemort at all.

_Terrible, but great._

“Of course, I doubt I have convinced you with just a speech,” Riddle said smoothly, shifting back on his heels, and Harry felt like he had been shaken awake from a peculiar dream. “Perhaps we should go with your plan to drag the cabinet back to your dorm room?”

“Er, I’d rather not,” Harry muttered, finally tearing his gaze away from Riddle to fix it on the offending cabinet instead. It was easier than considering Riddle’s words. “…We can figure it out later. What do we do about Snape?”

Riddle hummed thoughtfully, seeming unbothered by the change in topic. “Are you sure he’s loyal to Dumbledore?”

“No, but Dumbledore trusts him.” Harry wasn’t able to keep the bitterness from his voice. Snape was conspiring to _murder_ Dumbledore, and Dumbledore still wouldn’t listen to a word against him. A former Death Eater betraying the Order was far from impossible. Why was Dumbledore utterly convinced Snape was on their side? Either he knew about the plan and was keeping Harry in the dark, or he didn’t know about the plan and refused to take the simplest of measures to prevent his death.

“Dumbledore isn’t a fool,” Riddle said quietly, “and Malfoy isn’t subtle. The news could have reached him through a variety of channels. Snape doesn’t even have to be loyal to Dumbledore to inform him—knowing Malfoy’s utter lack of discretion, it could have saved his cover as a spy. I believe he knows.”

Somehow, that made everything worse.

Harry had thought Dumbledore would have stopped keeping him in the dark after the disastrous events of fifth year: the Department of Mysteries, the shattered prophecy, Sirius. But he hadn’t. He had left Harry to fumble at theories, to make a fool of himself in front of the Order while he hunted for proof of Malfoy’s scheme. He had lied to Harry’s face about Malfoy.

“Great. Dumbledore probably knows,” Harry muttered. He scowled at the Vanishing Cabinet. “Dumbledore knows, and he didn’t tell me, even though I already sort of knew, even though half the problem with fifth year was all his bloody _secrets_.”

There was a pause.

“That isn’t all Dumbledore is keeping from you,” Riddle said, and the tone of his voice made Harry’s head snap around to look at him. Riddle looked back, unsmiling, his emotions strange and unreadable—or perhaps it was the drumbeat of dread pounding in Harry’s ears, making everything feel terribly, terribly small.

“…What?”

Riddle exhaled slowly, and Harry wanted to snap at him to hurry up, to stop playacting and put his mask aside for _one_ fucking second, because it was his life they were speaking about—

“You are my horcrux.”

The world stopped.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffhangers lmao! I promise I’ll let up on them. For now <3

Back when Harry was young, before he had discovered magic and wizards and Hogwarts, there was a game Dudley and his gang had liked to play. Similar to everything they did, it wasn’t particularly clever. It was called “Harry Hunting,” and it consisted of them tracking down Harry to beat him until he curled up into a quiet lump beneath their feet, the wind knocked from his lungs, simmering with an angry, desperate hurt. Why was no one helping him? What had he done to deserve their aggression? Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had told everyone in Privet Drive that he was a troublemaker, the children of alcoholic layabouts, but why did it mean Dudley could treat him like a punching bag while the adults turned away?

Standing in the middle of the Room of Requirement, gaze frozen on Riddle, nails digging painfully into his palms, he felt much the same now as he had then—an angry, desperate hurt simmering inside him, clawing for answers, explanations that would never satisfy him.

“You’re lying.” His voice trembled. “You’re _lying_.”

“You know I’m not,” Riddle said. He took a step forward, and Harry stumbled back on unsteady legs, shaking his head frantically.

“Dumbledore wouldn’t—he wouldn’t keep that from me—”

“Really? Didn’t he keep the prophecy from you, the very reason Lord Voldemort went after you as a child?” Riddle dipped his head slightly, the picture of solemnity. “The only reason I know this is because I discovered the memories of the horcrux within you, you know. On the thirty-first of October, 1981, I sought to use your death to create my seventh and final horcrux—a fitting end, I believed, for the boy prophesied to defeat me. I prepared the rituals, the spellwork required to move the fragment of my soul into a vessel. Instead of killing you, however, my Killing Curse rebounded, destroying me… and the fragment of soul, already split from the murders I had committed, already unstable from the horcruxes I had made, found a home in _you_.

“You are my horcrux, Harry,” Riddle continued. “That’s how I was able to leave the diadem. That’s how you are connected to Lord Voldemort, how you have dreams and visions of him, how you can feel his emotions.”

Despite the rise and fall of his chest, rapid, frenetic, Harry couldn’t breathe. Reality had become a strange and terrible nightmare in the matter of seconds, falling apart, falling down to crush him until he curled up in a quiet lump beneath its feet.

He was a horcrux. _He was a horcrux._ He was just like Riddle, like the diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, the snake. He was one of the anchors tethering Voldemort to life.

And, to defeat Voldemort, he would have to be destroyed. He would have to die.

Had Dumbledore known that, too?

Since when? Since he was a baby, the lightning bolt cut fresh on his forehead, already burdened with titles and expectations and losses? Since he was a second year, a torn diary clutched in his hands, covered in blood and muck after he had prevented Voldemort’s return a second time? Since he was a fourth year, returning to Hogwarts with the Triwizard Cup and Cedric’s body, helplessly relaying the tale of the graveyard?

Riddle’s hand settled on his shoulder, and he started. He hadn’t even realised Riddle had moved, though he had been staring straight at him since the admission had left his lips: _“You are my horcrux.”_

“I know this must be difficult for you,” Riddle said, leaning in, speaking softly. Harry wondered if he had practiced in the mirror, honing the sympathy in his smile, the gentleness of his tone. It would have been perfect, if not for his eyes. In his eyes, there was only triumph. “To learn that Dumbledore has betrayed y—”

“Fuck you, Riddle,” Harry snarled, shoving the hand away.

“…Sorry?”

The sympathy was wiped off within seconds, vanishing like a spell; Riddle’s voice was cold now, his expression hard. Harry liked the anger more. At least it was real.

“Fuck you! Stop acting like you care about me. You don’t. You don’t care. You could’ve told me the day we met. You had time to talk about all your little goals and justify killing Muggles, but you apparently didn’t care enough to tell me I’m a horcrux. You’re just as fucking bad as Dumbledo—”

Harry yelped as Riddle grabbed him by the shoulder, dragging him forward until they were inches apart. “Let go!”

“I have been patient with you, Harry,” Riddle hissed. “I have helped you. I have brought you further along the path to victory in days than your precious Dumbledore has in years. The least you could do is be _polite_.”

“Be polite?” Harry tried to wrench away, but Riddle was surprisingly strong for a person without a body. “Dumbledore needs me dead to win the war, and you’re a fucking murderer who doesn’t care if I live or die! _You_ try being polite in my situation! God, maybe I should go jump off the Astronomy Tower right now, then at least I’d get the choice!”

“Calm down,” Riddle said sharply. “You’re being irrational.”

“Yeah, because I’m. Going. To. _DIE_!”

“You are not going to die. Listen to me.” Riddle shifted his grip to seize Harry’s chin, tilting it upwards to forcefully look him in the eye. “I do care whether you live or die, Harry— _don’t interrupt me_ —though I won’t pretend it’s from the goodness of my heart. No, you are essential to Voldemort’s defeat.”

“How? I’m a teenager who got lucky a few times, and Voldemort… he’s _Voldemort_! You can win the war without me. You—you have to win the war without me.”

“You are more than a teenager who got lucky a few times. Do you think any of your classmates could have the will to fight back against Voldemort for years on end, since they were a child? Do you think they know the realities of war beyond what the Ministry-controlled newspapers and the adults in their life see fit to tell them? Do you think, at eleven, twelve, they would set out to thwart Lord Voldemort by themselves rather than relying on teachers to fix everything for them?”

“My friends—”

“Your friends only persevere because _you_ have influenced them. Without you, they would have been utterly average, unremarkable.”

“What you’re saying is that they would’ve been better off without me!”

“No,” Riddle said. “What pride is there in being unremarkable when the Wizarding world needs remarkable people to thrive? What use is there in being sheltered when Lord Voldemort’s reign is looming ahead? You made them extraordinary, Harry, because you yourself are extraordinary. You are an icon of the public. You are the subject of the prophecy.”

“The public?” Harry scoffed. “What good’s the public? They can’t decide whether I’m the saviour of the world or the next Dark Lord, even now! And the prophecy—Dumbledore said that the prophecy only meant something because Voldemort believed in it, that the ‘power he knows not’ is fucking _love_. I guess I’ll love Voldemort to death! Does he like long walks on the beach, d’you think, or is he a dinner and a movie kind of bloke?”

“Forget the pettiness of schoolchildren. You give the public hope to fight back; you remind them Lord Voldemort is not as invincible as he seems. When the time comes, like it or not, they will look to you for strength. For many, losing you will mean losing hope.”

“I never asked them to!”

“Regardless, they do. If you wish to gain their support—which you should—you must come to terms with your role. Wars are not won solely by men who sit in ivory towers, moving chess pieces across the board, but also by the masses who seek inspiration from them.”

Riddle abruptly released Harry’s chin. “Make your allies respect you. Martyring yourself might endear some to the cause, but nothing will draw them like powerful, charismatic leadership. As for the prophecy… Dumbledore’s word is not where the world begins and ends. Lord Voldemort believes in the prophecy, so it will come to fruition, one way or another.”

“I’m a _horcrux_. I don’t have a choice except to die,” Harry bit out. “How else are we going to defeat Voldemort?”

“Weren’t you paying attention? I have merged with the horcrux within you, and when I manage to acquire a body, you will be free.”

That… gave Harry pause.

It seemed simple enough. It solved his problem tidily. It benefitted Riddle, too.

In short, it was too good to be true.

“What’s the catch?” he asked. “Are you taking my soul in exchange, or…?”

Riddle smiled. The fact that Voldemort had dimples had remained absolutely fascinating, for reasons Harry couldn’t quite pinpoint. “No. We already agreed to sacrifice a Death Eater or two, didn’t we?”

“Two?” Harry said, incredulous. “That wasn’t part of our deal, Riddle.”

“I need two, which I wasn’t keeping from you deliberately; I just hadn’t realised at the time. Also, you may call me Tom.” Riddle’s smile turned amused. “We are soulmates, after all.”

Heat rose to Harry’s cheeks. “Wha—no—we are _not_ soulmates!”

“Aren’t we?”

“Soulmates don’t even exist! Stop trying to distract me. What do you need two Death Eaters for?”

“Souls are… complicated, impressionable things. They never quite forget,” Riddle said. “With two Death Eaters in the castle, I could acquire a body immediately, but our souls would still be tied together. As pleasant as your company is, I’d imagine we would quickly tire of each other if we had to spend the rest of our lives bound, unable to move more than a couple of meters from each other. However, murder splits the soul—and, again, our souls are tied together.” He paused. “When either of us murders the first Death Eater, rather than splitting your soul apart, my soul will separate from yours, being foreign. I am then free to drain the other Death Eater’s life, returning to my own body.”

Harry took a minute to consider Riddle’s words. He didn’t _want_ to murder anyone—to be honest, he could barely imagine the idea—but they were looking at people like Bellatrix and Wormtail, monsters who had tortured and killed dozens of innocents without a hint of remorse. If he had to choose between their lives and his own…

“How do you know for sure? I mean, you haven’t done this before, have you?”

“I haven’t,” Riddle admitted, “but I’m certain it will work. The theory is sound.”

“Did you think the theory was sound before you split your soul seven times and accidentally made me your horcrux?”

Riddle frowned at him. “I know better now,” he said icily. “Most wizards don’t dare to stray into soul magic. With the lack of evidence, I used to think souls were simple, cleanly divided into portions of seven. Now, using experience, I have realised that I was wrong, because that is how research works. Unless you would prefer to come up with a solution of your own, I recommend doing what I say.”

“I’m just making sure,” Harry said, holding his hands up in surrender for a few seconds before lowering them. At least Riddle was being somewhat open with him. Speaking of—“What about Dumbledore? I don’t think he’d approve of you coming back to life, but… he wouldn’t let me die if he could help it, right?”

The moment the question left his mouth, he felt plaintive, childish. Clawing for explanations that would never satisfy him. He didn’t know what Dumbledore would do anymore. He didn’t know Dumbledore at all.

“You underestimate Dumbledore’s hatred for me. I doubt he would want to let you die, but he does have a war to win. He would refuse to take me at my word on principle, even kill me.” Riddle tilted his head consideringly. “Perhaps we could let Malfoy go through with his task.”

“No!” Harry said hastily. Whatever he was currently feeling towards the Headmaster, he couldn’t stand back and watch Dumbledore die while Death Eaters roamed through the halls of Hogwarts. At the same time, though, he didn’t want to lose Riddle. His help had been invaluable so far.

“Maybe we could just… avoid him,” he continued. “I mean, there’s only a couple of months left in the school year, and he barely shows up these days. How hard can it be?”

“You’re forgetting that Dumbledore is a Legilimens.”

“I’ll learn Occlumency, then,” Harry insisted. “Besides…” He trailed off, the words ‘he wouldn’t do that to me’ dying away on the tip of his tongue.

Riddle sighed. “Very well. We’ll see how your plan goes, Harry, but we can’t afford to delay anymore. Destroy the cabinet quickly.”

Harry glanced down at his wand, clutched tightly in his hand. His fingers had gone numb, and he stretched them out, one by one. It was only a cabinet, he reminded himself, glancing back up to Riddle. “What’s the spell?”

“ _Flammifera_ , like so,” Riddle said. He reached forward to clasp Harry’s wrist, moving it up and down in a harsh, jagged motion. A little late, Harry realised that he was demonstrating the wand movement.

“Er, can you show me again?”

“Of course,” Riddle agreed. He repeated the motion; it was shaped like a three-pronged flame, superficially similar to _Incendio_. Releasing Harry’s wrist, he added, “Focus on your anger, your desire to see the cabinet burn. However, don’t let the anger turn into rage, or else you might lose control.”

Anger? Although he had managed to calm down in the time that had passed by, Harry still had plenty of anger to spare. At Malfoy, for refusing to see sense despite his life being at stake. At Dumbledore, for keeping such an important secret from him. At Voldemort, for pursuing dark magic until his soul flaked off like necrotic flesh.

At himself, for remaining ignorant to the secrets flitting around him, for trusting Dumbledore without question like a sycophant—like a Death Eater.

_Dumbledore’s man through and through, aren’t you, Potter?_

Harry aimed his wand at the Vanishing Cabinet. “ _Flammifera_!”

In the blink of an eye, the cabinet was swallowed up by bright, multicoloured flames, vivid and beautiful, heat radiating against Harry’s face. From red to yellow to blue to violet, a spectrum of colours danced over the wood, dulling the surroundings—eclectic as they were—in their vibrancy.

Harry was mesmerised.

Finally, almost reluctantly, the flames burnt out. Only a pile of ash remained, pale grey, deceptively ordinary compared to the glory that had produced them.

“Well done,” Riddle said. A fierce burst of pride warmed Harry’s chest, and he turned, unable to prevent a grin from spreading over his face.

Riddle returned the smile, more reserved, yet with a hint of genuine pleasure. His words returned unbidden to Harry’s mind: _“Nothing will draw them like powerful, charismatic leadership.”_

…Tom Riddle _would_ know all about powerful, charismatic leadership, wouldn’t he?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it’s unclear what memories Tom absorbed from the horcrux:  
> \- Voldemort’s life up to October 1981  
> \- Bits and pieces from Harry's life when the horcrux was active (i.e., whenever Harry’s scar acted up and whenever he was around Voldemort’s soul, diary included

By Sunday morning, the Gryffindors’ resentment had yet to die down. Harry had slid into the seat between Ron and Hermione, exhausted, ignoring the looks thrown his way from some of the Housemates who had loved him just a couple of days earlier. He felt like he hadn’t slept in ages. Tonight’s dream had involved fire, Riddle’s laughter cold and mocking, lingering long after the flames had swallowed him. However imaginary it had been, the memory was putting him off his breakfast, and the _Daily Prophet_ ’s latest headline wasn’t helping.

“‘ _Inferius attack on Portree kills five wizards, thirty-two Muggles_ ,’” Hermione was reading solemnly. Her plate had been pushed aside, untouched, to make space for the newspaper. Splashed across the page was a dark, nearly still image of a destroyed cemetery, the graves torn apart and empty, the fence toppled to the ground. The only movement came from a few Aurors in the background, their red uniforms distinguishing them from the drabness.

 _Grave-robbing? How inelegant,_ Riddle commented, without a hint of humour. Harry suppressed the urge to bury his face in his hands.

“‘ _In the latest in a series of attacks on Wizarding villages by You-Know-Who, Inferi terrorised the residents of Portree in the later hours of Saturday. According to the statements of witness Brunhilde Babbling, who lives across from the Muggle Portree Cemetery, disturbances could be heard coming from the cemetery at around 9:30 PM. When she looked through her front window to investigate, the cemetery had been desecrated, and dozens of Inferi were seen making their way through the village… The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was allegedly quick to respond, but the Inferi had already attacked a local Muggle pub… Witness Christopher Booker declared the attack a failure on part of the Ministry, for overlooking to enchant Muggle cemeteries against Inferi alongside Wizarding cemeteries._ ’” Hermione looked up, frowning. “Oh, this is awful. He’s getting closer and closer to Hogsmeade, you know.”

At 9:30 PM, the Gryffindors had resumed commiserating in the common room, dejected and upset from their loss, yet safe and sound in the halls of Hogwarts. Their biggest problem, then, had been the Quidditch Cup. Meanwhile, the war had been raging on. The residents of Portree had been fearing for their lives; a scheme to assassinate the Headmaster had been taking place under the students’ noses; Harry was an accidental horcrux, Tom Riddle was lurking in his head, and his friends were none the wiser.

How could he pretend to be one of them, worried about Quidditch and dating and homework, waiting for the adults to fix everything for them? How _had_ he been one of them less than a week ago, when he had had a piece of Voldemort’s soul within him?

“No offence, mate, but you look like shit.”

Ron’s comment broke Harry out of his reverie; he glanced up, blinking the sleep from his vision, to see Hermione lightly swat Ron with the newspaper. “Ron!” she exclaimed.

“What? He does!” Ron turned to Harry, sizing him up. “Have you been sleeping at all?”

“I have,” Harry said defensively. “It’s just, well, nightmares…” He trailed off, hoping Ron would get the message, but Hermione jumped into the conversation, her eyes widening.

“Are you having those again? You really should start working on your Occlumency—”

“Leave him alone, the both of you,” Ginny interrupted, from where she was sitting opposite Harry, twirling a spoon in her cornflakes. She shot Harry a conspiratorial grin, though her words were directed at Ron and Hermione. “You’re starting to sound like Mum and Dad.”

“Keep your nose out of it, Ginny!” The tips of Ron’s ears flushed scarlet; Hermione feigned deafness to bury herself in her newspaper. Harry muffled a snicker into his sleeve. Ever since the break-up with Lavender, he had expected Ron to finally get together with Hermione, but they had kept dancing around the topic. The Sorting Hat’s songs of Gryffindor courage were meaningless when it came to romance, apparently.

 _You really_ should _start working on your Occlumency_ , Riddle said, and the brief, blissful levity of the moment abruptly died away. Harry could have almost believed that Riddle wasn’t present, that he was laughing and joking with his friends like he was a normal sixteen-year-old, rather than a horcrux…

Seeing as Ron and Ginny were embroiled in an argument, while Hermione had been lost to the _Daily Prophet_ ’s pages, Harry moved to get up. He wasn’t in the mood to eat, so he could at least make use of his time.

 _No. Finish eating_. _You won’t be of any use to me if you faint halfway through the day._

Why in the world was everyone trying to parent him?

Resigned to his fate, Harry settled back into his seat and picked up his fork.

* * *

The door clicked shut behind Harry as he stepped into the Room of Requirement. His friends had been reluctant to let him go—“You’ve been pulling a disappearing act on us for days!”—but when he had told them he was trying to learn Occlumency for his nightmares, Hermione had withdrawn, with Ron quick to follow her lead. At least he was technically telling the truth. He _was_ trying to learn Occlumency, though with Riddle’s assistance.

The Room of Requirement’s current form was barebones compared to the colossus Harry had just visited last night: two chairs and a table sitting in the centre, illuminated by sunshine that seemed to filter in from nowhere in particular. When he looked to his right, Riddle had appeared beside him, somehow striking despite half of his features turning indistinct in the light.

“Sit,” Riddle ordered. Although the tone of his voice made Harry want to childishly refuse, he sat. Riddle took the seat opposite him, steepling his hands together on top of the desk. “What do you know about Occlumency?”

“It’s guarding your mind from Legilimency.” Harry thought back to his short-lived and unfortunate lessons with Snape. “I had lessons with Snape last year, to close off my connection with Voldemort. He didn’t tell me a lot, just to clear my mind and stop feeling.”

“Those are the basics of Occlumency, yes. Why did you stop?”

Harry winced. As much as he hated Snape, remembering the sight of his father and Sirius humiliating Snape in front of a crowd, acting like Draco Malfoy, still left a sour taste in his mouth. “I, er, got kicked out.”

“Really?” Riddle made an amused sound in the back of his throat. “I’m not surprised. What did you do?”

“He… caught me looking in his Pensieve.”

Riddle laughed softly, shifting back in his seat. It was such a stark contrast from the cold, mocking laughter of Harry’s nightmares that he stared a little at the pleasant curve of Riddle’s mouth. “That would do it,” he said. “I nearly got a month’s detention in fifth year, when Dumbledore accused me of looking in his Pensieve. Of course, I talked my way out of it.”

“Of course you did.” Riddle could probably talk his way out of getting arrested for murder with the weapon in his hand. Pausing, Harry considered the rest of Riddle’s words. He, too, had looked in Dumbledore’s Pensieve, though Dumbledore’s reaction had been profoundly different. Had it been a lie? Had Dumbledore thought of a fifteen-year-old Tom Riddle, then? And what memories had Dumbledore needed to hide away, even before the war with Voldemort?

“…What did you see?” Harry asked.

Riddle smirked. “I’ll tell you if you manage to guard your thoughts from me for, let’s say, a minute.”

Harry snorted. “Are you bribing me, Riddle?”

“No. In fact, I’m motivating you—and didn’t I tell you to call me Tom?”

“You hate your name,” Harry said incredulously. Besides, even though he hated believing Voldemort had a point about anything, the name “Tom” didn’t suit the man at all.

“Riddle isn’t any better, and you can hardly call me Voldemort, can you?” Riddle said. “No matter. How did your Occlumency lessons go? Did you manage to clear your mind?”

“Not really,” Harry admitted. “I don’t get how exactly I’m supposed to stop having thoughts or feelings.”

“It gets easier with practice. You’ve learned the Memory Charm decently well”—if the hours of practice Harry had put into the charm had made him decently well at it, he dreaded to find out the amount of work required to become an expert—“and Occlumency works on similar principles. If it helps, focus on an inoffensive, unemotional, and repetitive idea, like brushing your teeth. You don’t think or feel much while brushing your teeth, do you?”

“Wait, if I can focus on a memory, why do I have to clear my mind, anyway? I could just think of something else, right?”

“As a protection against surface-level Legilimency, your idea might work, but it would be useless against a master Legilimens. Every memory, every thought and feeling, is interconnected. Happiness and sadness are not opposites in terms of the Mind Arts; they are, in fact, similar due to their intensity. If you misdirected a Legilimens with a happy memory, for example, they could use the pathway to see memories of similar emotional impact. Clearing your mind will disconnect you from the rest of your memories.”

Harry nodded slowly. It made a surprising amount of sense.

“I don’t expect you to master Occlumency in a few days, or even a few months,” Riddle added. “If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll take care of the problem myself.” His expression abruptly turned serious. “You will have to give me your wand in case of a crisis.”

Over the years, Harry had become intimately familiar with Riddle’s primary problem-solving method: murder, which Harry would rather avoid. He would also rather avoid giving Riddle his wand. Although he couldn’t deny Riddle’s usefulness, letting his guard down and handing him a wand was begging for trouble.

Still, if the worst came to the worst… Would he really have a choice?

Harry exhaled. “It won’t happen. I’ll learn Occlumency. Can we get started yet?”

Riddle hesitated, like he wanted to argue, but he only said, “Very well. Take a few moments to clear your mind. Remember what I suggested—inoffensive, unemotional, repetitive.”

“Okay.” Harry closed his eyes, trying to recall brushing his teeth at the beginning of the day. Riddle usually remained silent after he woke up, apart from a cursory “good morning”; Harry could almost forget his presence amidst the routine. It was a relief, especially while he was showering. Imagining Riddle with him _then_ was—

“You’re getting distracted.”

Harry jumped at Riddle’s voice, realising his face had started burning. “Er, yeah, sorry,” he mumbled, fixing his gaze on the table. He would definitely have to clear his mind. Why had his thoughts taken such a weird, unwanted turn? “I’ll try again.”

…Maybe he would have to branch out from Riddle’s suggestions. Racking his mind for an “inoffensive, unemotional, repetitive” memory, Harry remembered the detention with Snape, the mind-numbing routine of copying down names, dates, and offences. His resentment towards Snape aside, it could work.

“Can you use Legilimency on me now?” Harry asked the table.

“You do have to make eye contact with me, you realise?” Riddle said. His tone was light-hearted, though his curiosity was slightly piqued. “Avoiding eye contact _is_ a last-resort defence against Legilimency, but I don’t want you relying on it. Someone like Dumbledore would certainly notice.”

“Right,” Harry said, feeling stupid. _Don’t think about Riddle with you in the shower,_ he reprimanded himself, and had to resist the urge to bang his head against the table when his brain promptly supplied him with the thought of Riddle with him in the shower, in person, illustrations included. He did _not_ want to think about Riddle with him in the shower. Why would he? No, he would prefer to think about Ginny with him in the shower—

 _Do_ not _think about anyone with you in the shower, you randy idiot!_

“Harry?”

Harry’s head jerked up. A stab of familiar annoyance had joined the curiosity, but Riddle’s voice remained even. “If you don’t feel up to practicing—”

“I am!” Harry rushed out. “We can start. Just give me a second.”

Closing his eyes, he desperately thought back to detention with Snape, even while the irritating, idiotic voice in the back of his mind taunted his imagination: the dozens of detention cards he had gone through, the ink leaving his quill in a glossy, pitch black scrawl as he copied down students’ various misdemeanours, practically turning his thoughts off. He would have to avoid thinking about the ones featuring his father and friends, though there had been plenty of those.

“I’m ready,” he told Riddle, opening his eyes, determined to keep his attention on the detention cards instead of the angles that composed Riddle’s jawline. Which he didn’t want to keep his attention on, anyway. It was only his brain trying to sabotage him.

_Cards. Cards. Think about how boring they were._

Riddle leaned forward in his seat. His gaze settled on Harry, dark, intent—

—and he was in detention with Snape, mechanically crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s of the name _Benedetta Zabini_ … He was watching Riddle lift Hufflepuff’s cup from its casing, his hungry expression mirrored on Hepzibah Smith’s features… He was dripping in Stinksap, toad in hand, fumbling over his words to Cho Chang as he wished for the ground to swallow him…

“What were you focusing on?” Riddle said, and Harry abruptly found himself back in the Room of Requirement, seated opposite Riddle.

“What?”

“What were you focusing on?” Riddle repeated. “It didn’t work well.”

Harry grimaced. Snape hadn’t been the problem last year, after all. “Sorry. I was focusing on yesterday’s detention.” He decided to hazard a guess as to what went wrong; maybe Riddle would appreciate his efforts. “Was it… too emotional? Too connected to the rest of my memories?”

“Yes. I don’t want you to focus overmuch on the memories themselves, because all of them are interconnected. I want you to focus on the feeling you experience during them—a clear mind, free of thought and emotion. That’s the important part. My suggestion was simply a tool you could use.” Riddle paused. “You don’t have to use it. Every person’s mind is different; thinking up a method of your own could be helpful.”

Harry took a minute to mull over Riddle’s advice. When had his mind been truly clear? So far, his life had been a series of misadventures, most of which involved surviving attempts on his life and thwarting Voldemort’s schemes. He hadn’t been left with a lot of time to free himself from thought and emotion. There had been one or two moments, though.

There had been flying. Unlike Quidditch, he didn’t have to consider the points or the rival team or the Snitch, only the wind rushing past his face, the broom beneath him. And, with the chores the Dursleys had made him do until he could threaten them with Sirius, there had been housework. He hadn’t enjoyed it in the least, but his brain tended to turn off as he scrubbed floors and washed dishes.

Flying. Housework. He could do neither of those while practicing Occlumency… but he didn’t have to. He just had to focus on the feeling: his mind empty, his body moving for him on instinct after years of practice, his consciousness practically anchored to the object in his hands.

It could work. It would work.

“I think we can try again now,” Harry said, glancing up. His fingers curled around the edge of the table, its wood smooth and solid to the touch.

Riddle nodded, and in a split second, Harry was jarringly thrown back into his memories. He was in the living room of Number Four, Privet Drive, watching Dumbledore pour glasses of mead as the Dursleys watched in stunned, scared silence… He was eavesdropping on Malfoy on the Hogwarts Express, listening to him boast about Voldemort’s mysterious task… No, he wasn’t—he was in the Room of Requirement with Riddle, clutching onto a table—

“What happened to Dumbledore’s hand?” Riddle demanded.

Harry frowned, annoyed by the way Riddle hadn’t addressed his Occlumency at all. He couldn’t tell if he had managed to throw Riddle out of his mind, or if Riddle had just withdrawn to question him. “Your ring,” he said shortly.

“My—the old man put on my ring?”

Within seconds, delight surged through Harry, powerful and foreign. Riddle tipped back in his seat and laughed—the vicious, mocking, and horribly familiar laugh that set Harry on edge. “Well, we won’t have to worry about Dumbledore for long,” he declared with relish.

Even before he had spoken, though, realisation had struck Harry like a pitcher of icy water. When it came to Dumbledore, only one thing could draw such a reaction from Tom Riddle: his death.

“Dumbledore’s going to—”

Riddle smiled at Harry, all teeth. “ _Yes_.”

Harry… didn’t know what to say.

Dumbledore had betrayed him. Dumbledore had kept him in the dark. Dumbledore had set him up to die.

But still, Harry had looked up to him, had admired and believed in him for years on end. Had trusted Dumbledore with his life, his friends’ lives, until the truth shook the foundations of everything he thought he knew. He didn’t want Dumbledore to die.

“You made progress on your Occlumency, by the way,” Riddle cut in. “It wasn’t bad, for a beginner. You almost removed me from your mind. Would you like to try again?”

Coming from Riddle, it was high praise, but Harry didn’t feel as much as a hint of pride. “No,” he said hollowly. “I think I’ll do my homework.”

Riddle dipped his head in acknowledgement, thankfully letting Harry’s pathetic excuse go by unchecked. “We’ll continue afterwards, then. Let me know when you’re ready.”

Before he vanished, though, he added, “Do keep an eye on Malfoy. I wouldn’t want him taking matters into his own hands, would you? Let nature run its course.”

And, mirth dancing in his eyes, a brilliant, cruel smile on his lips, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it, people. We said the word “smirk”. I am now a qualified fanfic writer.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings are in the endnote, if you have any triggers.

“Were you really such a bad kisser that you made her cry?” Riddle wondered aloud, his hands clasped on top of the table, his lips curled in a cat-like smile. Harry wished he could disappear from existence and take Riddle with him. Of course he had to find Harry’s awkward kiss with Cho Chang in the Room of Requirement last year. Of course he did.

A couple of days had passed since Harry’s first Occlumency lesson, and while Riddle had told him he was improving, even having to step up his Legilimency by a little bit, Harry didn’t feel like it. Progress in Occlumency seemed to come by degrees… as evidenced by Harry’s failure to remove Riddle immediately from his mind during the embarrassment of his first kiss.

“Shut up,” he snapped. “Must be easy to kiss without a nose.” Immediately, he regretted putting the ideas of Voldemort and kissing together. Who would ever want to kiss Voldemort?

“I’ve had a nose for twenty years, and I’ve never made anyone cry while kissing them.” Riddle paused, his smile turning sharper. “Unless they wanted me to.”

Harry stared at Riddle, nonplussed. There were a lot of things he could have addressed in Riddle’s statement—who had been kissing Tom Riddle, mostly—but he decided to start off with the obvious. “Why would anyone want you to…?”

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Riddle said loftily. Harry considered hitting him in his handsome, condescending face.

“Wait, she wasn’t even crying because of me!” he insisted. “Her boyfriend died.”

Riddle laughed outright then, the bastard. “You were such a bad kisser that she started thinking about her dead boyfriend?” 

“Wh—no!” Forget hitting; Harry wanted to strangle him. “You are the absolute  _ worst _ , Riddle. It’s a shock anyone kissed you at all.” 

“A shock?” Riddle gestured at himself, amusement glittering in his eyes, and narcissistic as he was, Harry had to admit that he was right. From a completely objective point of view, Riddle was extremely attractive. It was only natural for people—Harry excluded, of course—to want to kiss him. 

“Yeah, a shock you had time between covering up your murders and rearranging the letters of your name to sound better.”

“Scheduling works wonders,” Riddle said, a little colder, “and I won’t take criticism of my naming choices from a person who thought ‘Roonil Wazlib’ was a passable alias for ‘Harry Potter’.”

“I forgot you were there,” Harry said ruefully. The Half-Blood Prince’s book was still stashed in a cupboard somewhere. He had considered retrieving it, but between classes, Occlumency lessons, and stalking Malfoy, he barely had time to sleep, let alone hunt through the Room. 

Besides, he didn’t seem to need the book anymore. Riddle offered advice during class unprompted, always useful, oftentimes scathing at the ineptitude of Harry’s textbooks. Although he had drawn the line at homework, Harry’s marks were better for the help, and his teachers approved—especially McGonagall, whose enthusiasm for Harry had dimmed since the  _ Sectumsempra _ incident. Hermione, with her vendetta against the Prince, had been suspicious of Harry’s continued talent in Potions class. However, he had managed to fend her off with excuses so far. Riddle had even encouraged Harry to spend time with his friends. “You can’t keep avoiding them forever,” he had said.

Harry would have almost preferred to stay away, to protect them from Riddle; he had missed them, though, and Riddle wasn’t a threat to them for now. He wasn’t stupid enough to trust Riddle, but he had been an invaluable help, he hadn’t murdered anyone or stolen their wand…

…and he had been  _ nice _ , once, beyond the façade of charm and politeness and advice. It was a single incident, and it wasn’t particularly noteworthy, yet Harry couldn’t get it out of his head.

With a decade’s worth of memories purely at the Dursleys’ house, Riddle was bound to stumble upon the unsavory ones sooner or later, and he had found them less than a minute into yesterday’s lesson. Harry had braced himself, expecting Riddle to push his Muggle-hating agenda, maybe, or call Harry weak, or fake sympathy when Harry knew he wasn’t capable of the emotion, or a million other reactions, none of which were favourable—but he hadn’t. He had only given Harry a look of quiet solidarity, and then told him to stop focusing more on the technique instead of the actual act of clearing his mind. 

Coming from Riddle, it was almost compassionate.

“You did finally manage to remove me from your mind in the end,” Riddle spoke up. “What did you do?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry said with a grimace. “I just  _ really  _ didn’t want you seeing that.” 

Riddle hummed thoughtfully. “I’m going to try something, and we’ll be finished for tonight. Think of a memory you absolutely don’t want me seeing.”

Plenty of memories sprang to mind, starting with the nightmares Harry had been having about Riddle as of late, and ending with the dream Harry had had about the diary back in fourth year that had meant nothing at all about himself, thank you very much. Harry mentally cursed Riddle for making it resurface. He would have preferred to die than have Riddle find out. “Wait—” 

But he was already in the Chamber, and sixteen-year-old Riddle was gripping him by the collar, his face a hair’s breadth from Harry’s own.  _ No, _ he thought desperately.  _ No, he can’t see this, no, no— _

—and there was a loud, jarring bang. Harry was back in the Room of Requirement, breathing hard, and Riddle… was on the floor. He had fallen on his hands and knees, his chair knocked over, his expression comical in its surprise.

“Well,” he said slowly, somehow managing to seem elegant while standing up and dusting himself off, “I suppose you have the will required for Occlumency, at least.”

“Did you see anything?” Harry asked, his heart racing. 

Immediately, amusement flooded in on Riddle’s end. Harry wondered what life would be like if he ran away and never returned to Hogwarts again. Majorca might do, or France. He had always wanted to see Beauxbatons.

“I saw a glimpse,” Riddle said. An all-too-knowing smile played at his lips. Harry nearly jumped out of his skin when Riddle took a step forward, but he had only moved to right the chair and sit back down. For a blessed moment, Harry thought he wouldn’t bring it up, until—“You know… I don’t remember my diary manhandling you in the Chamber of Secrets.”

His face burning, Harry met Riddle’s eyes in an attempt to act calm and collected. He failed miserably. “I don’t remember, either.” 

“Interesting.” Riddle’s mouth twitched. “Occlumency can help with your, ah… nightmares.” He tilted his head to the side, his words deliberate. “You wouldn’t want to keep having them, would you?”

Harry desperately, desperately wished that Voldemort had been better at murdering one-year-olds. Dooming the Wizarding world to his tyranny would be better than having this conversation. 

“No,” he said in a strangled voice.

“I think playing to your strengths would work for now.” The change in topic made Harry stare blankly at Riddle, without a clue as to what he was talking about. “Mastery of Occlumency takes years, which we don’t have. You can’t defend yourself against Dumbledore with subtle yet mediocre Occlumency if he’s truly determined to use Legilimency on you. Throwing him out of your mind—literally—would draw attention, but he wouldn’t discover me.”

It took a second for Harry to process Riddle’s suggestion. He never wanted to live out today again. “Right! Right,” he rushed out, “but how do I do it on purpose? You told me I couldn’t rely on memories.”

“You absolutely don’t want Dumbledore finding out about your… nightmares, yes? Then your mind would be doing the work for you.” Riddle paused, probably savouring Harry’s utter humiliation. “Throwing a Legilimens out seems rather obvious, in hindsight, but it’s poor form and doesn’t offer the other benefits of Occlumency. I still want you to learn true Occlumency. In a crisis, however, you have the option now.”

“Have you taught Occlumency before?” Harry asked, latching onto the question to dodge the topic of his “nightmares.”

“No. I didn’t find it worth my time.” The unspoken implication that  _ Harry  _ was worth Riddle’s time was alarming in how much it pleased him, even though it was obviously due to the risk of Riddle getting discovered. “The Mind Arts are impossible to standardise and incredibly difficult to teach, since they have to be tailored to the individual. You won’t find classes, only books, private tutors, and.”

“So… if you don’t have either of those, you have to deal with Legilimens—er, Legilimenses—in your head?”

“ _ Legilimentes  _ are regulated by the Ministry,” Riddle said. Considering the competency of Ministry regulation, he might as well have said it was a free-for-all. Harry’s disgust must have shown on his face, because Riddle laughed. “Oh, don’t worry. There are only a handful of people who could perform Legilimency on you undetected. Otherwise, it’s fairly obvious, and you could take them to the Wizengamot.”

That didn’t inspire confidence. Fudge had tried his hardest to expel Harry last year with the backing of the Wizengamot, stopped by Dumbledore’s intervention alone. 

The best thing to do, Harry mused unhappily, was to learn Occlumency, or to fix the Ministry himself. It was a ridiculous leap, seeing as he was sixteen years old and despised politics.

When he thought about it, though, it wasn’t completely impossible. Riddle had been right about Harry’s level of influence. Fudge had seen him as a threat to be stamped out; Scrimgeour had seen him as a tool, yet an important tool nonetheless. Harry had always despised his fame, always preferring to stand behind Dumbledore’s actual power, but he couldn’t anymore. He had a choice to make, and if he could use his fame—however unearned and unwanted—for the better…

“It’s a quarter to twelve.” Riddle’s voice interrupted Harry’s train of thought. “You had better get going. Remember to practice clearing your mind.”

Harry nodded hastily. The Fat Lady had been well and truly displeased at the hours he had been keeping, leaving her portrait in a huff yesterday before he could even tell her the password. 

Riddle vanished. Pulling on his Invisibility Cloak, Harry walked over to the door, swinging it open. He took a step outside—

—and instinctively jerked sideways as a jet of red light sailed over his head.

_ Oh, for Merlin’s sake,  _ Riddle said. 

“I know you’re there, Potter!” Malfoy shouted. He was standing in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, wand in hand. Illuminated by the dim, flickering firelight, he looked worse than he had merely days ago, pale and weak. “Come out, you interfering”—he slashed his wand, sending a blast to the left of Harry—“Mudblood-lover!”

He had found about the Vanishing Cabinet, then. Nothing else could have brought him to the Room of Requirement. Harry slammed the door behind him, ducked a pale blue spell that disintegrated against the wall, and whirled into a defensive stance. “ _ Stupefy _ !” 

“ _ Crucio _ ! Stop hiding like a coward!”

Harry dodged the curse easily. Malfoy couldn’t see him; he had the advantage here. He muttered a Silencing Charm at his shoes, having to dodge again when Malfoy shot another  _ Crucio  _ in his direction. 

“It’s always you, isn’t it? It’s  _ always _ fucking you!” Malfoy brandished his wand. “ _ Confringo _ !”

Harry’s eyes widened. Was he trying to kill both of them? “ _ Protego _ !” he shouted, leaping at Malfoy. The Shield Charm enveloped them just before an explosion shook the floor, leaving Harry’s ears ringing, Malfoy yelling and thrashing beneath him. Digging his wand into Malfoy’s throat, Harry kneed him solidly in the stomach.

“ _ Incarcerous _ ! What the fuck is wrong with you?” he said heatedly. 

“You specky, nosy imbecile, you Mudblood fucking filth! Your entire fucking family line should have been smothered in the crib—you destroyed the Vanishing Cabinet—it was you, it was  _ you _ , I know it was you—”

Malfoy’s panicked voice trembled, broke, giving way to great, ugly sobs. Tears pouring down his face, he went limp in his bindings. 

Harry stared. “Malfoy, wh—”

“Just kill me,” he snarled. “Kill me right now. Just fucking do it. It’s the nicest thing you could do for me.  _ Please _ .”

With the final “please”, it seemed that words could no longer escape his mouth. He could only emit a series of shuddering cries and ragged gasps for the audience of Harry’s uncomfortable silence.

Begging for death in his Falmouth Falcons pyjamas, he looked horribly young. Too young to sign his life away to a madman as punishment for his father’s failures. Too young to kill and torture and maim in the name of a cause he was raised into from birth.

Far, far too young to die in a sick attempt at revenge or suicide—or had it been both?

Riddle’s disdain was palpable, but Harry’s anger had vanished. All he felt, watching the sobbing, hysterical Malfoy, was pity.

_ You need to get out of here,  _ Riddle said sharply.  _ The professors will already be on their way.  _

Glancing over his shoulder, Harry winced and slid off of Malfoy. An enormous section had been gouged out of the wall. Chunks of stone were scattered across the floor, though none had hit him or Malfoy, thanks to his Shield Charm. Was the Room of Requirement still functional? He hoped so.

_ Unbind him. I’ll take over. _

“You mean—”

_ Hurry. _

Harry fumbled for his wand. “ _ Evanesco _ ,” he said, and the ropes disappeared. Malfoy stilled; his scar stung. The sensation in the back of Harry’s mind, the constant presence of Riddle’s soul, so familiar that he had barely noticed it at all, faded away. If their connection had been a river before, it was now a thin, meandering stream. In its place was a weight on his chest, an aching hollowness where Riddle’s presence was supposed to be. 

The implications of that… weren’t something Harry wanted to consider.

Malfoy sat up. Gone was the fear and desperation that had whittled him to a cowering shell of himself. His spine was straight, his expression cool and neutral. His mannerisms were smooth, elegant, a predator’s—Tom Riddle’s. 

“Let’s go,” Malfoy—Riddle—said, rising to his feet. Even his manner of speech was different, softer and more deliberate. It was strange to hear in Malfoy’s voice. Harry nodded, sweeping him under the Cloak. They started walking.

“Where to?” Harry asked in a low voice.

“There’s a secret passageway behind the tapestry of Bran the Bloodthirsty.” Riddle looked behind himself. The sound of hurried footfalls and the buzz of agitated conversation had started in the distance. “Come on.”

The two of them hurried through the twisting and turning corridors of the seventh floor, until they hit an intersection. A tapestry hung on the wall, depicting a huge, bald giant standing at the foot of a hill, a struggling human boy clutched in one of his hands. Corpses in various stages of decay were littered about his feet.

“Pleasant bloke,” Harry said.

Riddle ignored him. “Marrow,” he told the tapestry, which swung aside to open into total darkness. He stepped inside, followed by Harry, and the tapestry fell shut.

Harry took off the Invisibility Cloak, tucking it in his pocket, and cast the Wand-Lighting charm. He found himself in a dusty stone passageway that, a couple of meters ahead, led into a dead end.

“It’s been blocked off.” Riddle sighed. “No matter. Do you have the map?”

Rifling through his robe pockets, Harry pulled out the Marauder’s Map. Riddle had been particularly impressed with the artefact, especially after learning that it had been created by students. “Here,” he said, passing it over to Riddle and holding his wand above it to illuminate the worn parchment.

Riddle tapped the map with Malfoy’s wand. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” 

Coming from Malfoy’s mouth, stated in Riddle’s inflection, the usual phrase was alien to Harry’s ears. He peered over Riddle’s shoulder, taking a little bit of childish vindication in being ever-so-slightly taller than Malfoy. The emotion quickly vanished, however, when he noticed the names flitting around the seventh floor corridor. “McGonagall. Snape. Flitwick. Sprout. Great.”

“Next time, we’re checking the map before we leave.” Riddle’s tone brooked no room for argument—not that Harry was going to argue.

“What are we going to do about Malfoy?” he asked. “We can’t just leave him.” Thinking about the sheer desperation in Malfoy’s pleas, his gut twisted.

Riddle frowned. “No, we can’t. He’s an imbecile. I would gladly kill him—”

“Don’t _. _ ” Harry couldn’t believe he was making excuses for Malfoy, but he said, “He’s scared of Voldemort.”

“He could have killed us,” Riddle snapped. “You may hold your own life in shockingly little regard, Harry, but I don’t. However, if I kill him now, it will draw attention to you as a suspect, and I doubt your friends would lie to cover up a murder. My idea is to possess Malfoy until I can dispose of him without throwing suspicion on you.”

“No,” Harry said immediately. Apart from the issue of murder, he hated the sensation of being separated from Riddle: the unceasing, unnatural hollowness, as though a part of him had been torn away.

“What are your brilliant ideas, then?”

Harry paused. What  _ were _ his ideas? Although he didn’t want to kill Malfoy, he couldn’t let him run around Hogwarts in a state, blasting walls and hurting students. Neither could he convince Malfoy to help the Order, judging by his reaction to the suggestion last time. Besides, the chances of betrayal were high.

Unless…

“We make him take a vow.”

There was a pause.

“That… could work, if you manage to convince him,” Riddle admitted. “Unbreakable Vows require a Bonder, but there are lesser vows that don’t. However,  _ if  _ you manage to convince him, you will let me make the conditions, and I will require a favour out of Malfoy.” 

“A favour?”

“Dumbledore has something of mine that I want back.” 

For a moment, Harry didn’t have a clue what Riddle was referring to, until he remembered the ring. “You’re going to get Malfoy to steal the ring? But the portraits—”

“ _ You’re _ going to steal the ring. Malfoy is going to serve as a distraction.”

Harry wanted to argue, but when he thought about it, he supposed Riddle’s plan would work. He couldn’t find a problem with the favour, either. What harm could an ugly old ring do? After all, it wasn’t a horcrux anymore, and it was only natural that Riddle wanted his family heirloom back.

“Fine,” he said. “What vow do you think is best?”

“Magicis Servus will work.” Riddle handed the Marauder’s Map to Harry. “Even thinking about going against the vow will cause pain. The stronger the desire, the greater the pain. It can be undone, though,” he added, seeing the look on Harry’s face, “unlike plenty of other vows. The other party also won’t require a wand.”

“Alright.” Harry didn’t like the sound of Magicis Servus, really—what kind of shady vow only needed a single person with a wand?—but he liked the idea of Riddle killing Malfoy even less. At least he had a way to convince Malfoy. Well, he thought he did. “What do I do?”

“It’s simple. Move your wand in a spiral over Malfoy’s head. Again, if you manage to convince him, I’ll tell you what to say. Now take his wand and bind him.”

Harry took the wand Riddle proffered, tucking it into his pocket. “ _ Incarcerous _ ,” he said, and ropes wrapped around Malfoy’s form, nearly sending him crashing to the floor before Harry caught him.

In a split second, the ache in his chest was soothed by the steady familiarity of Riddle’s soul. Although he was annoyed, Harry’s shoulders still slumped in relief, but he couldn’t bask in the sensation for long—Malfoy was already twitching into consciousness. Leaning him against the wall, Harry stepped back, wand at the ready.

Malfoy blinked groggily awake. Harry expected him to shout insults and mock Harry like he had the last time they had ended up in this situation, but he took one look at the wand pointed at him, threw his head back, and let out a jagged laugh.

“Going through with it, are you, Potter?” he said. “Good on you. I’d hoped to take you out with me, to be perfectly honest, but we can’t all get what we want in life, can we?”

Maybe, if Malfoy had been slightly less irritating, or if Harry was any good at comforting people, he could have mustered a few sympathetic words. Instead, he blurted out, “Merlin’s pants, you are such a drama queen.”

Through the dark cloud of Riddle’s annoyance, he felt a spark of amusement.

“It runs in the family,” Malfoy drawled, though his gaze was darting around, following Harry’s every move. “You wouldn’t know, of c—”

“I’m trying to save your life, you idiot, so shut up and listen!”

“Don’t bother. You and your Order of the Phoenix are done for, just like the rest of us. At least I’ll go out in a blaze of glory, an up-yours to you and the Dark Lord both. Well, I was supposed to.” Malfoy laughed again, bordering on hysterical.

_ I can still kill him,  _ Riddle offered.  _ He wants to die. It wouldn’t be unethical. _

Harry ignored Riddle. Looking down at Malfoy, he exhaled slowly. If what he was about to offer couldn’t convince Malfoy, then nothing else would.

“I’ll help save your mum from Voldemort.”

Malfoy’s head jerked up, his eyes narrowing, his mouth twisting. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Potter,“ he spat. “No one can save her. Not from  _ him _ .” His voice trembled.

_ Yes, Harry. Don’t make promises you can’t keep,  _ Riddle said acidly.

“I can,” Harry said, trying to channel a confidence he didn’t feel. “I’ll vow to save her—”

_ No. _

“—if you make a vow to me—”

_ Absolutely not. _

“—that you’ll leave Voldemort’s side.”

_ Harry. _

“You don’t have to join the Order, either—”

_ Harry Potter. _

“—just run away to France or something. I’ll help you.”

_ Harry Potter, you complete imbecile, I swear on all that is magical— _

Riddle’s voice had transformed into a frustrated snarl that sent pinpricks through Harry’s scar, but Harry let the words wash over him. He was determined to keep his focus on Malfoy. 

Malfoy stared at Harry. For a long, terrible moment, punctuated only by Riddle’s anger, he was silent. Then, beneath the affected casualness, the desperation and terror, there was a glimmer of hope.

“…Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Briefly attempted suicide


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 9: the remix! No, this is not a glitch—I’ve rewritten and republished the chapter. Thank you to everyone for the feedback. I genuinely appreciated the criticism, and I hope you find my rewrite to be an improvement. 
> 
> Warnings are listed in the endnotes. They’re kind of a spoiler, but feel free to check them if you need to. Also, the “Unreliable Narrator” tag is pretty relevant in some parts.

No sooner had the agreement left Malfoy’s mouth than Harry’s world was set alight with pain.

The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. He registered that he had bitten his tongue in an attempt to muffle the screaming, to keep himself from scaring away Malfoy, but the sensation was barely noticeable compared to the fire radiating through his skull. His knees gave out. Although he could hear Malfoy’s voice in the distance, high and panicked, it was a garbled series of noises, as if he was speaking underwater.

What was he saying? Harry didn’t know. He didn’t know anything except the burning, blinding agony of his scar, the blood dripping down his forehead, or his chin, or both—he opened his mouth to croak out a plea for Riddle to stop, maybe, but he could barely form words, and even through the tears blurring his vision, he could see Malfoy flinch away, so he threw a hand over his face and bit his lip and tried to hold back his screams—of course Riddle had to humiliate him in front of _Malfoy_ , of all people—

The pain vanished.

A sob of relief escaped Harry’s throat. His lips still stung, and he could feel the warm, sticky blood on his skin, Riddle’s fury pulsating in his mind, but it was insignificant compared to the pain Riddle had dealt him. Realising that he had tumbled to the floor, he propped himself up on his trembling hands and knees. He slowly rose to his feet.

“What was that, Potter? Was it—was it him?” Malfoy demanded, less than a second later. Harry squeezed his eyes shut against the headache threatening to burst into life at the sound.

“It’s fine,” he rasped. He suppressed a wince; talking hurt, too.

Malfoy laughed, incredulous. “You just had a fit in front of me! Don’t tell me it’s fine. What was that? Was it him? Did he find out? My mother—”

“No!” Harry said hastily, and couldn’t suppress his wince this time. “No. You’re fine. He doesn’t try to look into my mind anymore.”

“ _Anymore_?”

“Since the end of fifth year.” Harry rubbed at his prickling scar, the shock of pain fading into weariness. He needed to have a conversation with Riddle. Bending down, he scooped up his fallen wand and the Marauder’s Map. “Just… give me a couple of minutes, alright?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel, his stride out of the passageway turning into a stumble. The tapestry of Bran the Bloodthirsty swung shut behind him, abruptly cutting off Malfoy’s protests. He glanced around the deserted corridor before hurrying into a classroom across from the tapestry, silencing the door.

Harry turned, his back to the entrance. Moonlight filtered through the windows and spilled over the tiles, too faint to illuminate the bulky rectangular shapes pushed to the corners of the classroom. “Riddle,” he said.

A beat of silence passed, then another. Harry hoped Riddle wasn’t preparing to murder him—not that he could without ending his own life as well.

“Harry.”

One word made the temperature in the room drop.

_Here we go._

Riddle stood in front of Harry, his arms crossed, his face devoid of emotion. His eyes, though, told a different story—dark and cold and intent on Harry.

“What were you thinking?” he asked. Although he kept his voice careful, even, Harry could almost hear the insult he had carefully refrained from tacking on at the end of the sentence. “You cannot possibly bind yourself in a vow to a—a Death Eater. I won’t allow it.”

Harry tried to match Riddle’s measured tone, but his agitation spilled through. Just because he had been cooperating with Riddle for a week didn’t mean that Riddle could order him around like he was a pet. “Did you really think I’d stand back and let you _kill_ someone? I’m not one of your servants, Riddle, and you’re not my master.”

“You’re putting our lives in danger with your foolishness,” Riddle said, his eyes narrowing. “This concerns me as well. I said I won’t allow it.”

“Well, I said you’re not my master.” Harry glared back. “Like it or not, I’m going to save Malfoy’s life. I won’t let you _or_ Voldemort kill him.”

“Why?”

It was a question Harry should have anticipated from Riddle, of all people. That didn’t stop his frustration, though. “What d’you mean, why? What kind of person would I be if I just let him die?”

“Hasn’t he almost killed a few students with his poorly thought-out schemes?” Riddle pointed out. “He isn’t a poor, hapless victim. He could have chosen to turn away from Lord Voldemort at any time, but he didn’t. Instead, he inflicted his idiocy on the innocents around him, and they were close to paying the price with their lives. If he were tried for his crimes, he would end up in Azkaban for years—compared to which death is a mercy, for most. I would be doing him a favour.”

“Voldemort was threatening to kill him! What was he supposed to do, leave his mum to die and join a bunch of people who hate him?”

“Wouldn’t you? Rather than harm others?”

“Yes!” Harry snapped. “I won’t say he isn’t a filthy coward, because he is, but that still doesn’t mean he should die! He’s not a monster! He doesn’t even want to be on Voldemort’s side anymore.”

“Why does that mean he should live, though?” Riddle demanded. “Why does that mean you should endanger yourself for his sake?”

“Why does that mean you should murder him?”

“He’s a liability. Keeping him alive puts the entire castle at risk.” Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Riddle ploughed on. “If a rabid animal poses a threat to humans, do we not put it down, even though it lacks malice—even though it isn’t responsible for its action?”

“We’re talking about a _human being_ here!” From the stinging protest of his throat, Harry realised that he had begun to shout. He hadn’t meant to waste time arguing with Riddle, but comparing Malfoy to an animal was crossing a line. “You’re pretty much the same, you know. No, you’re _worse_. You’ve killed and tortured, I don’t know, a lot of innocent people. Dozens, at least. What’s the difference between helping Malfoy and helping you? Why shouldn’t you be ‘put down’?”

There was a flicker of alarm, so brief and small and unacknowledged by Riddle’s expression that Harry wondered whether he had imagined it.

“The difference between Malfoy and me,” Riddle said, bitingly cold, dangerously soft, “is that I am not a pathetic, cowardly, and stupid little boy who throws tantrums when the world doesn’t cater to him. Nothing was given to me; I _took_ it.”

He took a step forward, then another, slow, tense, like a cobra preparing to strike. Harry didn’t move, didn’t flinch, even as he was cornered against the door.

“Did you think I enjoyed my stay at the orphanage, Harry, surrounded by those who were simply waiting for the opportunity to destroy me? Even at Hogwarts, did you think the purebloods stood by a poor, dirty-blooded orphan in his times of need? Did you think, if Hogwarts had closed down, any of my followers would have let me sully their beautiful _family_ homes? No. I cleaned up after myself. I closed off the Chamber of Secrets, sacrificed my heritage—”

“Oh, yeah, you got Hagrid expelled. Great sacrifice, that was!”

“ _Don’t_ interrupt me,” Riddle hissed, making an aborted motion to seize Harry by the collar before apparently thinking better of it. “I sacrificed my heritage, and I’m prepared to sacrifice my horcruxes to fix the mistake that is Lord Voldemort. Even though I want your help, I’ve helped you in turn. You have everything to gain from working with me. What do you gain from helping Malfoy?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer, slightly relieved to have found an edge—however minute—but Riddle kept talking. His words tumbled into each other in his agitation, oxygen seemingly unnecessary for him. “ _Nothing_. You gain nothing. Spoiled, unhappy, pureblooded brats, are about as common as knuts. If it’s connections you desire, I’m sure we can find you someone who doesn’t have a target on their back. Even the Muggles have a saying—survival of the fittest. Malfoy was too weak to find a way to survive. He was too stupid to even _try_ , and now, you step in to save him, like his family name hasn’t coddled him enough for a lifetime. Let him die _,_ Harry. He deserves the fate he’s brought upon himself.”

His face was inches away from Harry’s, all sharp angles and barely suppressed rage. Harry refused to let his gaze waver. Riddle couldn’t intimidate him, with words or with threats. He couldn’t hurt him. Wandless and incorporeal, he couldn’t hurt anyone.

“I wouldn’t be letting him die,” Harry said shortly. “I’d be letting you or Voldemort kill him when I could save his life. There’s a difference. Also, isn’t Voldemort living in their house? They could have lots of information.”

“Are you forgetting Malfoy’s father is in disgrace right now, or are you trying to justify your poor decisions? Lord Voldemort wouldn’t reveal any of his plans to them. He might have seized control of the house’s wards as well, which you should have thought of before you went around promising to save his dearest mother’s li—”

“I’m not going to break into Malfoy’s house and steal Mrs. Malfoy from under Voldemort’s nose! I’m not an idiot!”

“Well, unless the memories I have are wrong, that _is_ almost exactly what you did last year, and it didn’t—”

“Don’t talk about the Ministry!” Harry snapped, jerking back from Riddle as if burned. He was never, ever going to let anything like the incident at the Ministry happen again. Riddle could go directly to hell for using Sirius’ death as a piece of leverage, a trump card to pressure Harry into cooperating. “You don’t have the _right_ to—”

“You don’t have the _right_ to interrupt me. You don’t have the _right_ to involve me in your terrible decisions. You don’t have the _right_ to threaten everything I am trying to build by dying in a foolish, soft-hearted plan that is doomed to fail—and, without my help, you _will_ fail. I will be taking care of the situation. That is final.”

“Fuck you.” There was nothing else Harry could reply to the condescending, insulting mess that had left Riddle’s mouth. He had survived fine without Riddle for years, but here Riddle was, acting like Harry didn’t stand a chance without him. Like he didn’t need Harry more than Harry needed him. “No. I’m helping Malfoy, and if you kill him, you can say goodbye to any help you want from me. You can’t stop me.”

“Can’t I?”

At once, Riddle’s demeanour shifted. A cruel smile curled the corner of his mouth upwards. He tilted his head, taking a step backward, and Harry’s wand shot up to aim at his chest. Riddle couldn’t fight him; he was unarmed; he needed Harry…

“I can’t hurt you _too_ badly without a wand, Harry,” he said conversationally, “but I can hurt your lady love. Souls have a long memory, you see, and my diary made a good deal of progress with hers. What was her name again?”

 _Ginny_.

Harry’s mouth went dry.

Even as a horcrux, a tiny fragment of Voldemort’s soul, powerless except for the magic he was leeching off Malfoy and Snape and, maybe, just maybe, Ginny, Riddle had secured an advantage over him. Riddle had Ginny. He could possess her, hurt her, kill her, and Harry could do nothing about it.

Riddle’s smile widened. “Of course, if you cooperate with me—if you walk away and let me take care of Malfoy—I won’t have any need to hurt her. You understand, don’t you, Harry?”

Smug. He was so, so smug. From the arch of his eyebrow to the tone of his voice. Like he had already won.

“Now,” he continued, “be a good boy, and lower your wand.”

They stared at each other for a long, terse moment, Riddle immaculate and infuriating in his victory, Harry bloodstained and bristling with rage. Neither of them spoke.

Finally, the holly dropped lower, lower—

—and swung around to dig into Harry’s own throat.

“How are you going to hurt Ginny when I’m dead, you bastard?” he snarled.

Riddle looked as though he had been slapped. His composure dropped, his expression twisting into something that, for the first time, could be called ugly. Harry wanted to brand every inch of it into his memory. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would, actually,” Harry retorted. The wood was warm against his Adam’s apple, humming with magic ready to burst forth. “You hurt Ginny—you hurt anyone—and I’ll kill myself and take you with me. You understand, don’t you, Tom?”

Riddle stalked forward, perhaps to snatch Harry’s wand, perhaps to strangle him himself, but Harry was faster.

“ _Diff_ —”

Even the first syllable of the Severing Charm made Riddle stop in his tracks, stumbling in his haste. Beneath the fury, the outrage, there was a sharp spike of terror. Harry meant every word he was saying, and Riddle knew it. Despite how dire the situation was, a slightly manic laugh bubbled up in Harry’s throat. He had thrown Riddle off-balance, both figuratively and literally.

“Stop this,” Riddle ordered through gritted teeth.

“No.”

“Stop this. If you end your life right now, Lord Voldemort will win the war—”

“You don’t care. You just don’t want to die.” Harry was deriving a little too much satisfaction from how desperate Riddle was. He had never seen Riddle afraid. Had he been threatened, truly threatened, like this before? Had anyone shoved him off his pedestal in years? “If you lay a finger on any of my friends… I’ll kill myself. You know I will. You know I’m not lying.”

Riddle stared at Harry, and he was the one caught at a disadvantage now, uncomposed, his eyes narrowed into slits, his fingers twitching at his side. For a person who was threatening to kill himself—who was about to kill himself, really, if Riddle decided to assume that he was bluffing—Harry felt surprisingly accepting of his death. At least he would be stopping Riddle from hurting Ginny, hurting the rest of the school. Ron and Hermione knew almost as much as Harry did about the horcruxes; Dumbledore would give them all the help he could. Malfoy would still be a problem, though Harry hoped that after tonight’s events, he would work up enough courage to go to Dumbledore.

Yes, the war would be fine. Harry would not be, but that had never mattered in the grand scheme of things, hadn’t it?

Seconds ticked past in silence. Harry started to wonder whether Riddle was waiting for him to give in, to either end their lives or change his mind, until—

“Very well.”

Two words. Clipped. Begrudging. And he vanished.

For a moment, Harry could only stare at the place where Riddle had been standing, hardly daring to believe his luck. He had won some sort of sick power play against Tom Riddle himself. It had almost cost him his life, but what encounter with Voldemort hadn’t?

Then, without so much as a warning, the entire weight of the situation crashed into him, and he let his head fall back against the door and tried to squash down the panic.

He had almost died. He had _actually_ almost died. No, what had happened was worse. He had almost killed himself. And, if he had gone through with it, no one would have known he had died to stop Riddle. They would have assumed that he was a coward, that he couldn’t handle the pressure of being the Boy-Who-Lived, that Voldemort was destined to rule if his prophesied defeater couldn’t even bring himself to live.

But how else could he have stopped Riddle? Could he have let Malfoy die? Could he have simply stood by and watched while Riddle took over Malfoy for days or weeks, waiting for Malfoy’s death with that awful emptiness in his chest? Waking up one morning with Riddle back in his head, going down to breakfast to see Hogwarts hushed and sombre, acting like he didn’t know exactly why? Pretending to be surprised like he wasn’t responsible for the murder of a student?

Could he have done something else? Could he have sent Malfoy back to Voldemort, unhappy, unwilling, with the knowledge that Dumbledore was going to die regardless? With the knowledge that he was a only pawn to Voldemort, that his entire family would die unless he bowed and scraped to everything the madman told him, however impossible? It would make him dangerous, a cornered, desperate animal with access to Hogwarts, or it would kill him. Harry didn’t know which option was worse.

He thought he had made the right choice. He hoped he had made the right choice. Because what other choice was there? What could he do about the situation that didn’t make him out to be a monster?

And what could he do about Riddle?

Riddle, who had threatened his friends. Riddle, who had taken over his life in a whole week. Riddle, who had been beautiful and charismatic and amusing and helpful until Harry defied him. Riddle, who had spent hours looking around Harry’s head, who had convinced Harry to cast the worst sort of magic, who had probably, definitely, been manipulating Harry the whole time.

He had been stupid. He had been so, so stupid. He had _known_ exactly what Tom Riddle was. Riddle had wrapped the entirety of Hogwarts around his little finger, had blinded everyone except Dumbledore to the darkness within him. How many innocent people had he destroyed by now? How many terrible fates had Harry disregarded as he had been pulled into Riddle’s orbit?

A horrifying thought floated to the surface of Harry’s thoughts: had it been the horcrux’s influence?

Last year, Voldemort had filled him with murderous rage at the sight of Dumbledore, had sent him dreams to manipulate him, had taken advantage of their connection in full. He had stopped only after his attempt at possession had gone wrong.

Maybe Riddle hadn’t closed off their connection. Harry had tried to shove the dreams into the back of his mind; recurring nightmares weren’t new to him, and while he had wondered whether Riddle was sending them, asking had felt like too much of a confession. Now, though, it seemed laughably obvious. Of course Riddle was using the connection. Of course Riddle was influencing him. During their first, fateful conversation, Harry couldn’t have imagined tolerating Riddle, let alone liking him. Yet, in less than a week, Harry had warmed up to him. Either he was a gullible idiot who had underestimated Riddle’s power… or it had been the horcrux.

The theory made sense. Every bit of amusement and fondness Riddle had drawn out of him, every lingering look Riddle had inspired from him, could have been the horcrux’s work. Harry could rest easy knowing he hadn’t actually been near-friends with a psychopath.

But that left the unfortunate, unanswerable question of how _else_ the horcrux could have influenced him, what it could have done during the time it had been with him. If the horcrux had affected his feelings towards Riddle, of all people, was it more powerful than he had realised? Was it conscious? Had it… changed him, somehow?

Harry looked down at his hands and found that they were shaking. Somewhere along the line, they had dropped his wand. They had apparently dropped their connection to him, as had the rest of him. He wondered whether they would still cooperate, or whether they had also turned on him.

First his mind, now his body. Was this the horcrux? He had never thought about the implications of being the human vessel of a fragment belonging to Voldemort’s soul, had never assumed it was capable of affecting him…

_What’s wrong with you?_

The sound of Riddle’s cold, snappish voice was a jarring reminder of reality. So was the throbbing pain that had resulted from a startled Harry banging his head against the door.

“You tell me,” he said, and was vaguely surprised that his mouth was working as expected.

_I don’t—never mind. Continue having hysterics in an abandoned classroom. Leave your sad little charity case tied up where no one will find him. That’s fine._

Harry had almost forgotten about Malfoy, the entire reason he had landed in this mess. Why had Riddle chosen to remind him?

He was probably planning something. A trick to bring Harry back to his side. A method to dispose of Malfoy—or Ginny, even—that would seem like an accident. Riddle wouldn’t take the loss lying down, Harry was certain; Voldemort never held back when it came to punishment. Threatening suicide wouldn’t hold Riddle off if he got his hands on a wand, and he had three in the castle. Maybe he was just biding his time after Harry went to sleep. Maybe he was thinking of cutting and running, taking Harry’s friends down on the way.

Harry needed a safeguard, a way to make sure Riddle could never leave until Harry let him, a way to make sure he could never hold Ginny hostage again

…He needed a vow.

It was an insane plan. Foolish. Possibly deadly. But it would get rid of almost all the leverage Riddle had over him, and that was all Harry cared about right now.

Grabbing his wand, Harry shoved open the classroom door, darted across the hallway, and rushed out the password. He hurried into the passage.

“About time.” Malfoy’s greeting was dripping with irritation. He glared at Harry from where he was bound in ropes and propped up against the wall, his wand barely out of reach on the floor. “None of this inspires confidence in me, Potter.”

“You’re still in, right?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes skyward. “What choice do I have?” he said sourly, as if Harry were robbing him at knifepoint rather than saving his life. Still, it was probably the best he could expect from Malfoy; Harry couldn’t antagonise him while he needed him for the plan. He might not even agree, once he knew the condition Harry was about to ser.

“Great,” Harry said, and braced himself for Riddle’s reaction, “because we’re going to be making an Unbreakable Vow.”

In a rare moment, both Riddle and Malfoy were stunned into silence. The sound of frantic, unsteady breathing filled the air, and Harry realised that it was his. He rubbed his scar absently, his gaze intent on Malfoy’s thunderstruck face. Would he refuse? Without his cooperation, there was no plan, no automatic safeguard Harry could use against Riddle.

Riddle broke first. _Tell me, are you completely insane?_ he began, with an outrage so powerful that Harry nearly felt it as his own. _I assumed you were just a soft-hearted idiot, but this—idiocy doesn’t even_ begin _to cover this. Tell me, Harry, what exactly are you doing? What are you hoping to achieve with this? Is this some sort of attempt at revenge?_

“Who’s going to be our bonder?” Malfoy asked, cutting through Riddle’s tirade. Harry was grateful for the distraction. He feared that, if he answered, if he thought at all, Riddle might find out what he was up to.

“Hermione.”

“Of course,” Malfoy muttered. Harry half-expected an argument, but it seemed that, occasionally, Malfoy knew when to keep his mouth shut.

“One more thing,” he added. Malfoy’s gaze flicked to him, wary. “You have to give up everything about Voldemort”—Malfoy flinched—“and the Death Eaters you have. Anything you can think of.”

There. Riddle would eat his words about the Malfoys being useless. At least, Harry hoped he would.

Riddle had fallen quiet, the only indication of his presence a boiling, near-homicidal rage at the edge of Harry’s mind. He scoffed at Harry’s words but didn’t bother to respond. Clearly, he had given up on convincing Harry—or maybe he was up to something. Maybe he already knew about Harry’s plan and was waiting until he let his guard down to strike.

 _Stop worrying,_ Harry told himself. Worrying would only drive him insane.

Malfoy took a couple of seconds to consider Harry’s words, then shrugged. “Deal.”

Pulling out the Marauder’s Map—which he had forgotten to wipe clear—Harry glanced down at the seventh floor. The teachers were still milling about the Room of Requirement’s corridor, and the Gryffindor common room was empty, most of the students having gone to bed by now. Bypassing the staircase to the girls’ dorm would be difficult, though. He would have to wait until the morning, but he couldn’t afford to waste even a second.

One stupid enchantment could stand between him and his plan. Harry scowled at the Map, wondering what he could do now. Hermione might have been the only person he trusted who knew how to cast an Unbreakable Vow.

…Unless Ron knew.

Back at the Burrow, Ron had told Harry about the time Fred and George had almost trapped him in an Unbreakable Vow when he was five. Occupied by the mystery of Malfoy and Snape’s secretive conversation, Harry had dismissed the story. Now, though, it seemed more relevant than ever: if a seven-year-old could cast an Unbreakable Vow, Harry’s problem had just fixed itself.

Confidence renewed, Harry retrieved Malfoy’s wand from the floor and tucked it in his pocket. Malfoy followed the motion with his eyes, his expression pinched, but he didn’t protest. Harry vanished the ropes with an _Evanesco_.

“Let’s go,” he said. He picked up the Invisibility Cloak, threw it over himself and Malfoy, and pushed open the tapestry.

* * *

The walk to Gryffindor Tower took place in hurried silence. Both boys were on edge, looking out for the teachers in case they decided to question the students tonight.

In a few minutes, Harry and Malfoy had reached the portrait of the Fat Lady. She was, thankfully, awake.

“ _Quid Agis_ ,” Harry said.

The Fat Lady started at the sound. “Late again, young man?” she said with a disapproving sniff, though she began swinging open regardless.

 _Obliviate her_ , Riddle said sharply, and it was Harry’s turn to start.

“Right,” he said. Malfoy shot him a strange look, but Harry darted over to the side, momentarily surprised that Riddle was still helping out despite being furious at him. Then again, if he caught the teachers’ attention, Riddle would be in danger, too. The bastard just wanted him to let his guard down while pretending to be selfless.

“Sorry about this,” he told the Fat Lady, aiming his wand. Before she could respond, he closed his eyes, concentrating on the events of the past few seconds: his disembodied voice speaking up out of nowhere with the password. “ _Obliviate_!”

When he opened his eyes, the Fat Lady was wearing a dazed expression, and Malfoy had stiffened behind him. Anticipating the questions that were to come, Harry grabbed Malfoy by the wrist, dragging him into the deserted Gryffindor common room before swinging the portrait shut.

“How do you know the Memory Charm?” Malfoy demanded in an alarmed whisper.

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry said, keeping his voice low. Tuning out Malfoy’s token protests, he retrieved the Marauder’s Map from his pocket; only Snape had remained in the seventh floor corridor, with Flitwick, Sprout, and McGonagall headed to their respective offices. “We should get to the dorms.”

“I’m not a crup to order around, Potter,” Malfoy informed him. He glanced around the room, wrinkling his nose. “No wonder you need glasses. All this red and gold is painful to look at.”

Either he was determined to be as insufferable as possible towards the person who was saving his life, or he simply had the natural charm and pleasantness of a slug. Harry bit the inside of his cheek—he didn’t want to be caught in an argument in the middle of the common room until they were discovered—but a response slipped past anyway. “No, a crup would be smarter than you.”

Malfoy opened his mouth, but Harry turned, striding up the staircase to the sixth-year boys’ dorm. He had no choice except to stumble along behind him, or risk being caught breaking into Gryffindor Tower.

A disharmonious collection of snores greeted Harry as he entered. Hopefully, all of his dormmates were asleep. Explaining why Draco Malfoy was in Gryffindor Tower would take much, much more effort than it was worth. Making his way to his bed, he shot a quiet _Silencio_ at the curtains.

Once they were past the safety of the Silencing Charm, Malfoy whirled on him. “How are we supposed to get to Granger from here?”

“We aren’t. I’m getting Ron,” Harry said. He grabbed the Invisibility Cloak, stuffing it beneath his pillow. “Don’t touch my stuff.”

Luckily for him, Ron’s bed was right beside his. He slipped through two sets of curtains, preparing himself for a drawn-out debate to convince his friend into letting him sign away his life to Draco Malfoy.

Ron was wrapped in a hoard of sheets, snoring soundly. Without hesitation, Harry shook him. “Ron!” he hissed.

“Gimme a minute, Mum,” Ron mumbled, turning away from Harry. It took a solid few seconds of shaking until he entered a state resembling consciousness, reluctantly shifting onto his back and cracking an eye open to peer at whatever was disturbing his sleep. “Wazzat? Harry?”

“I need your help.”

Ron sat up. Stifling a yawn, he squinted at Harry, bleary-eyed. “It couldn’t wait? Had to wake me up now, all scary and misty—mysterious?” He deepened his voice to an ominous, raspy growl. “‘I need your help, Ron. You’re the only one who can save the world, be—because—’”

Another yawn cut him off. Harry couldn’t even muster a smile.

“It really couldn’t wait.” He hesitated. “Er, don’t panic when I show you.”

Ron’s head snapped up, all traces of sleep vanishing from his face. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into now?”

“Just… come with me?” Harry said. If only Ron knew the true extent of things he had gotten himself into. Malfoy was just the tip of the terrible iceberg.

Throwing him a suspicious glance, Ron kicked off his sheets, standing up. Harry led Ron to his bed, drawing the curtains shut so they were within the bounds of the Silencing Charm.

For a moment, Ron only stared, his eyes comically wide with shock. Malfoy sneered back in response, snapping him back into awareness.

“Okay,” he said flatly, “either I’m still asleep, or you have fucking Malfoy in—near your bed. In the dorm room. In Gryffindor Tower.”

“Your intelligence is as keen as ever, Weasel.”

“Malfoy,” Harry hurried to put in before curses started flying, “don’t start.” He turned to Ron. “I have a good explanation for this.”

“Of course you do,” Ron said, in the tone of someone who believed that Harry very much did not have a good explanation for this.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Harry fumbled for words, considering how to best phrase the events of tonight. “So,” he began, and paused. Whatever he said, he would sound insane, but it was worth a try. “So. I made a deal with Malfoy to save his life and his mum’s life, as long as he leaves Voldemort’s side. He actually was a Death Eater, by the way, and Voldemort gave him the task to kill Dumbledore, except he didn’t find a way to do it—”

“I did find a way, and then you destroyed it, Potter!”

“—so now, will you be the bonder for our Unbreakable Vow?”

Ron blinked. Blinked again. For a long, tense second, no one spoke.

Then: “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

“Really?” Harry and Malfoy said simultaneously. Where Harry’s skepticism was audible, though, Malfoy’s voice was filled with disgust.

“No,” Ron said. “You’ve lost your mind. What in Morgana’s tits are you talking about? An Unbreakable Vow? To this—this complete arsehole? _Him_?” He gestured at Malfoy, who scowled and crossed his arms.

“You’re one to talk—”

“Shut up, Malfoy.” Harry wished they weren’t having this discussion on his bed. His pillow was temptingly close. He could just lay his head down, go to sleep, and forget about Malfoy and Riddle and Unbreakable Vows—but he couldn’t, not while Ginny’s life hung in the balance. “Listen, Ron, I know it sounds insane—”

“ _Sounds._ ”

“—but I have to do this.” Harry swallowed. He wasn’t sure how to make Ron take him seriously, let alone act as the bonder for their vow, but he had to try. “It’s… really, really important. Please.”

Something in his voice, or perhaps his expression, must have shown his desperation, because Ron was silent. Even Malfoy hadn’t started a petty argument; when Harry glanced up, he was staring at the floor, his mouth twisted pensively.

“Are you serious?” Ron asked finally. “He hasn’t Imperiused you, or you aren’t Crabbe under Polyjuice Potion—”

“Crabbe wouldn’t know how to pronounce ‘Unbreakable,’” Malfoy said.

“You might die if you fail. You know that, right?” Ron continued, ignoring Malfoy. “I’ll never forgive you if you get yourself killed.”

“You wouldn’t let me,” Harry said, “and if I just say I’ll do my best to try and save Mrs. Malfoy, the vow won’t kill me, right? That okay with you, Malfoy?”

Malfoy gave a stiff shrug.

“So, you’re serious?” Ron said again. “You don’t have to make an Unbreakable Vow, y’know—there are vows that won’t actually kill you; Hermione’d know—”

“I’m not letting you get away with accidentally binding our lives together in matrimony or slavery, Wease—Weasley,” Malfoy interrupted. Harry wasn’t sure whether or not he should be grateful. “It’s my mother’s life we’re talking about here. I won’t accept anything less.”

“It’s Harry’s life we’re talking about here, too!”

“I’m serious,” Harry said. “I need to do this. If you don’t want to be the bonder, it’s fine, but I’m just going to find someone else. Maybe one of your friends will find it funny, Malfoy.”

“Zabini would find it hilarious,” Malfoy agreed, “though you’d have to wipe his memory after the fact.”

The not-quite-goodwill towards Malfoy vanished. Harry didn’t need Ron finding about the fact that he knew the Memory Charm. “Yeah, or I could ask…” Considering the list of people Ron hated, he came to a quick conclusion. “…McLaggen.”

“McLaggen probably doesn’t know how to tie his shoelaces!” Ron retorted.

“He’d do it, though,” Harry said. Was what he was doing blatantly manipulative? Maybe. Most likely. But he needed to fulfil the vow with Malfoy tonight—left to consider overnight, Malfoy might change his mind, or go to Snape, or decide dying was a better option than having faith in Harry. And then what could he do to protect Ginny from Riddle, except threaten to kill himself until the novelty wore off?

Ron scowled, unable to argue with that.

“Pansy would do it, too,” Malfoy interjected. “Or Davis—you’d have one more lost puppy to save, then, but I don’t think you’re complaining—"

“Fine,” Ron snapped. “Fine. I still think you’re completely mad, and an idiot for even thinking of doing this, but… better me than McLaggen. Or Parkinson. Merlin, what is wrong with you people?” He sighed. “Let me go get my wand.”

As he walked away, Harry’s shoulders relaxed. He hadn’t even registered how tense he had been, wondering whether Ron would refuse.

 _You realise,_ Riddle said, and Harry tensed again, _you did agree to let me make the vows. And you_ must _initiate all of them; Malfoy is only to accept whatever you say—the Unbreakable Vow is based upon the speaker’s intent, and Malfoy could easily take advantage of you and kill you if he feels the urge later. Do you understand me? Are you going to listen to me, or are you going to make this difficult?_

Riddle was desperate. Better yet, he was _afraid_.

The realisation was almost enough to bring a smile to Harry’s lips. Thinking over Riddle’s demand, he offered a minute nod in response. However manipulative, however deadly and deceptive, Riddle had a vested interest in keeping him alive, for now. His vows would only favour Harry.

“Let me do all the talking,” he told Malfoy, who frowned in confusion. Before he could respond, though, Ron returned, wand in hand.

“Never thought I’d be saying this about you and Malfoy… but you have to hold hands.”

“I know.” Malfoy rolled his eyes, shifting to sit beside Harry, and Harry grasped his right hand. Ron placed the tip of his wand down.

Riddle spoke. _Will you, Draco Malfoy, forswear Lord Voldemort and his cause, and never willingly aid him or his Death Eaters in his efforts?_

Harry paused to consider Riddle’s words. It was surprisingly fair; it didn’t seem skewed against Malfoy like he had expected, unless Riddle had hidden a trap beneath the carefully crafted sentence. After a few seconds of hesitation, though, he repeated it.

Malfoy’s eyebrows rose. He took a while to mull over the statement, but in the end, he simply said, “Yes.”

Harry nearly jumped as a thin strand of orange flame, warm to the touch, shot out of Ron’s wand and wrapped around their joint hands.

_Will you give up any and all information that is, to the best of your knowledge, truthful and relevant to Lord Voldemort and his cause?_

Harry’s question, followed by Malfoy’s agreement, sent a second strand of flame wrapping around the first. The moment of truth—the last stand against Riddle—was moving closer and closer…

_Do you accept that I, Harry Potter, will attempt to protect the life of you and your mother from Lord Voldemort, to the best of my abilities?_

Another question, another consideration, another agreement—and here it was. A third jet of flame joined the rest. Harry tried to steady his breathing, to calm down before he gave himself away.

 _You can end the vow now,_ Riddle said coolly.

“Do you accept that—”

_What?_

“—I will attempt to protect you—”

_What are you—_

“—Ginny Weasley—”

_…Oh._

“—Ron Weasley—”

_Oh._

“—and Hermione Granger from Tom Marvolo Riddle?”

_I see._

Harry’s heart was in his throat. In a few seconds, Riddle could hurt no one—but maybe it wasn’t enough, maybe he had miscalculated, maybe Riddle would start draining Malfoy or Ginny of energy right _now_ —

“Who’s Tom Marvolo Riddle?” Malfoy hissed, as cold, cruel, and completely unamused laughter filled Harry’s mind. “Potter, what are you—”

“Yeah, Harry, what are you—”

“Say yes right now,” Harry snarled, and he didn’t know what made Malfoy cooperate, but he muttered a hasty agreement, and a fourth strand of flame wrapped around the third, and Ginny and Ron and Hermione and Malfoy were _free_.

As the brilliant orange glow of the Unbreakable Vow faded into darkness, he let out a shaky breath, listened to the sound of Riddle’s laughter, and tried not to think about what Riddle could be planning next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Suicide, mainly threats and ideation, with a non-graphic near-attempt


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …I was at the store getting milk and cigarettes?
> 
> No, but I scrapped about 3 versions of this chapter (including one that was extremely horny. Rest in peace), so. Sorry.
> 
> As a warning, this chapter gets pretty dark. One spoiler-y detail is in the endnotes. Nothing overly graphic, but it’s Tom doing what he does best—murder. There is also some slight Dumbledore bashing due to the unreliable narrator.

The rest of the night passed by in a blur. Harry half-heartedly dodged the demands for an explanation he couldn’t give, dismissed the threats of bringing Hermione into the matter tomorrow, and dragged Malfoy back to the Slytherin dungeon before a fight could break out. It was simply background noise, a distraction from the _real_ consequences—the consequences Riddle would bring down upon him.

He couldn’t tell how much time had passed since the Unbreakable Vow had been finalised, since the ominous ring of Riddle’s final statement ( _“How very clever.”_ A pause, perfectly calculated in order to make Harry hang on to his every word. _“I think I will have to expect more from you in the future, Harry.”_ ) and the terrible weight of the silence that had fallen afterwards. His thoughts raced at a fever pitch, consumed by the mess he was tangled up in. By the next morning, he would have to come up with excuses, hoping they would satisfy his friends. Later, he would have to find a way to hold up his end of the vow with Malfoy.

Most pressing of all, though, he would have to face a furious, vengeful Riddle. He couldn’t kill Harry, hurt any of his friends, or sabotage his mission with Malfoy, but Harry would be a fool to underestimate him. In his time, Tom Riddle had blinded the entirety of Hogwarts, bar Dumbledore, with the gleam of silver off his tongue. Despite knowing fully well the insidious brand of evil he was dealing with, Harry had almost fallen victim to Riddle’s manipulations anyway. Riddle was _dangerous_ , perhaps more so than Voldemort. They were night and day, artful rationality and rage-fuelled insanity; their only similarity, really, was their appetite for cruelty.

Harry knew how to handle Voldemort. He could meet him on the battlefield, running and dodging and exchanging spellfire. He could destroy the horcruxes, severing Voldemort’s ties to immortality and making him mortal again. But he didn’t know how to handle Riddle. How did he defeat an enemy he couldn’t throw curses at without getting caught in the crossfire?

What else did Riddle have up his sleeve? With access to Harry’s dreams, his mind, his very soul… what would he do next? The one person who could ease his worries wasn’t talking. Harry was left grasping for answers in the dark, the possibilities growing worse and worse until he briefly considered using a Stunning Spell on himself.

In a moment of weakness, he wished that Dumbledore could help him. He wished that Dumbledore could listen to his troubles without judgment, understand why he had made a deal with the devil. He wished that Dumbledore could fix everything with a piece of his characteristic wisdom and a wave of his wand.

Dumbledore couldn’t help him, though. Dumbledore needed him dead to win the war. The kindly old headmaster Harry knew was a lie. If he found out about Riddle living in Harry’s head, their souls tied together unless separated by murder, he might decide to kill both of them. When the alternative was letting Riddle come back to life, it was the logical choice.

Harry hated the part of himself that still entertained such silly, childish wishes about a man who had planned his death in advance for years. He wasn’t a clueless eleven-year-old who needed Dumbledore to swoop in and save him. He was sixteen, he was a horcrux, and he needed to solve his own problems.

Turning over onto his side, he sighed, trying to clear his mind. The sound of familiar snoring filled the air, punctuated by the faint ticking of Harry’s watch on his bedside table and the occasional hoot of a nearby owl. His dormmates were lost in sleep, oblivious to the young Dark Lord in their midst. He had shared a dorm with these boys for six years, but never once had they seemed so far away from him. Even when half the school had believed he was an insane, attention-seeking maniac, at least Ron and Hermione and the rest of Dumbledore’s Army—and Merlin, if the name didn’t make him cringe now—had stood by him. Would they still stand by him today, aware that he was a horcrux, that he had a piece of Voldemort’s soul influencing him since he was a baby?

The questions never stopped. The possible answers lead him in an endless, escalating spiral until he felt like he was about to go insane. He knew worrying wasn’t helpful, but he couldn’t _stop_. Every toss and turn in bed sent his mind tossing and turning, too. Every second thought in his head was Riddle, Riddle, Riddle.

His life, Harry reflected, was a disaster.

* * *

He must have fallen asleep eventually, because when he next opened his eyes, he was in a grand sitting room.

A few dying rays of sunlight filtered through the large, open windows. His reflection blinked back at him from the rich brown hue of the coffee table in front of him, the well-stocked bookshelf next to the door, the arm of the sofa beneath his own. In a corner, an unmanned grand piano played a slightly frantic melody. It reminded him of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, if Grimmauld Place hadn’t been stained with years of dirt and tarnish and misery.

He looked down at himself. He was wearing an unfamiliar set of robes, dark blue, the cut strange and old-fashioned. A cup of tea was clasped between his hands; its twin lay untouched on the coffee table alongside a plate of scones.

Was it a sign? Was Riddle here?

Setting his teacup down, Harry rose to his feet. Although he wasn’t sure why Riddle had brought him to this strange house tonight, he would be finding out. He walked towards the door.

The hallway that greeted him outside was short, leading into a staircase at the end, decorated with two identical doors positioned opposite to each other. Harry felt like he was playing a significantly more stressful version of hide and seek. What was Riddle’s goal? To frustrate him? To waste his time?

Footsteps sounded in the direction of the staircase. Harry almost ducked back into the sitting room until he remembered he was in a dream. As he lingered, watching, a man made his way upstairs. He seemed to be in his thirties, with close-cropped brown hair and a permanent weariness to the set of his shoulders. Strangely, his robes were identical to Harry’s. Entering the room to his left, he shut the door behind him.

Riddle had shown him the man for a reason, had even put them in the same robes. Harry immediately decided to follow.

Before he could move, though, Riddle appeared beside him.

Harry stumbled back, startled for a second, then annoyed. “What are we doing here?” he asked. “What is this place?”

Riddle didn’t respond. Harry glared at him, opening his mouth to ask again, but hesitated. There was something different about him—his face was just a touch softer, and he was a little shorter, maybe. Wearing a faint frown, he looked somewhere in between the diary and the diadem. Perhaps seventeen.

A memory, then. Like the diary showing him how he had framed Hagrid.

Without a single glance towards Harry, Riddle strode towards the same door. Harry hurried after him, wondering what he wanted with the man.

Riddle knocked.

“Enter,” a voice said after a brief pause, and he stepped inside, Harry close on his heels.

They had entered a study, almost as grand as the sitting room, though with a few more bookshelves. The man was sitting behind a desk, his fingers steepled together, staring into the lit fireplace. At Riddle’s entrance, he straightened up, a wary expression on his face.

“Good evening, Mr. Tremblay,” Riddle said, smiling pleasantly. “I’m one of—”

“Emilia’s classmates, yes, I know,” the man—Tremblay—interrupted.

Riddle’s cheek twitched minutely, but his calm, conversational tone didn’t waver. “I apologise if I’ve imposed on you. I can come back at another time.”

“No, no.” Tremblay sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I should be the one apologising. I’ve just had a long day with work. Forgive my rudeness. What can I do for you, Mr.…?”

“Riddle. Tom Riddle,” Riddle said. Hearing the name, Tremblay raised his eyebrows, his expression losing some of its wariness. “You’re a barrister at the Ministry, I’m told. I’m thinking about going into a similar field after I graduate, so I wanted to ask you some questions, if that’s alright with you.”

“Riddle… To be honest, that’s not a name I’ve heard before. Are you Muggleborn, by any chance?”

“Supposedly. I wouldn’t know for certain—I’m an orphan.”

“Oh.” Tremblay winced. “Well, then, I’d be happy to answer your questions. Please, sit down.”

Taking a seat in front of the desk, Riddle folded his hands on his lap. “Emilia has told me plenty about you. How you helped win the No Blood Alliance’s case against Fortescue”—Harry started at the name—“was truly admirable.”

“Thank you,” Tremblay said. “I wasn’t aware my cousin liked to talk about me. Nor was I aware Slytherins cared for pro-Muggleborn causes. You _are_ a Slytherin, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I hope that’s not an issue.”

“Of course not. I’m much too old for House rivalries, and you’re hardly Salazar Slytherin himself.”

“Hardly,” Riddle agreed, his eyes glittering in amusement. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Tremblay, Emilia didn’t have the nicest words to say about you.”

“I’d guessed.”

“I thought you would be better suited to answering my questions than anyone else, however. Your perspective is invaluable. You know how difficult it is to get a foot in the door without family connections. With the wrong name.”

“It’s getting easier, what with Grindelwald threatening to wreak havoc on us.” Tremblay offered a thin smile. “Traditionalist purebloods are having trouble deciding who they hate more nowadays, foreigners or Muggleborns.”

Riddle laughed softly, without a trace of warmth. “Let’s hope they choose the former,” he said. “I’d actually prepared a list of questions. Let me get my notebook.”

He reached into his robes with one hand—and slid his wand into his palm with the other.

Harry wished that he could warn Tremblay, that he could knock the wand out of Riddle’s hand or strangle him into unconsciousness. But he couldn’t. This had already happened, a long, long time ago. All he could do was watch, his fists clenched, as Tremblay nodded and went along, completely unaware that he was Riddle’s next victim.

“What’s the work environment like?” Riddle asked. He had pulled out a small black notebook from his robes; Harry would have thought that it was the diary horcrux, except for the neat, elegant script decorating its pages. When he peered closer, he could make out something about Livingstone’s Theory of Reverse Transfiguration.

“Tiring,” Tremblay said. “Long, irregular hours. Plenty of work. Some threats to your life. But if it’s what you truly want, you’ll get through it. Or so th—”

A red jet of light narrowly missed his arm as he threw himself to the side. Riddle didn’t miss a beat, sweeping his wand in an arc that tossed Tremblay to the floor with a loud crash. Tremblay went for his own wand, but Riddle had him tangled up in a series of shimmering golden threads before he could even wrap his fingers around it.

“Your lovely Housemates put you up to this, I suppose,” Tremblay said. His tone was flat, resigned.

“No one puts me up to anything,” Riddle said, tucking the notebook back into his robes. He stood up. “Emilia has given me the chance to conduct a valuable experiment. We’re doing each other a favour.”

“And they call me the blood traitor. What valuable experiment would this be?”

Riddle gave a light shrug in response. He turned to cast a series of spells Harry didn’t recognise on the door. Then he stepped around the desk and knelt beside Tremblay.

Tremblay’s mouth pressed into a tight line. “I have a few words for you, Mr. Riddle.”

“If you think you can change my mind, you’d be sorely mistaken.”

“You’ll never be one of them. The cause you’ve joined—it’s self-cannibalising. It needs someone to hate, to blame. And when they’ve removed the worst of the undesirables, the bad apples, who do you think they’ll turn on?”

Riddle tilted his head, surveying Tremblay through long, lowered lashes. He was so collected, so composed. Only the glint of hunger in his eyes told Harry that he felt anything at all.

“Your mistake,” he said softly, “is assuming that I’ve _joined_ a cause. I’m leading it, Mr. Tremblay.”

He raised his wand, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t want to watch Tremblay die, to stand by helplessly while Riddle killed a person without a shred of remorse, but he couldn’t look away.

“ _Legilimens_!”

At the same moment, an arm coiled around Harry’s waist, hauling him against a solid, silk-clad torso. 

Harry struggled furiously, trying to pull himself free, but Riddle—his Riddle—was holding onto him like a vice. He could feel every rise and fall of Riddle’s chest against his back, every inhalation and exhalation on his skin. Lips ghosted against his earlobe, the hint of heat sending a shudder through his body.

“Let me go,” he snarled.

“Do you know what happened to Michael Tremblay only five months later, Harry?” Riddle breathed. “Do you know what I did to his mind that evening?”

Harry fixed his gaze on the scene, far from the vicious murder he had expected. The younger Riddle, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration, was staring down at a panting, slack-faced Tremblay. What he was doing, Harry couldn’t guess. Taking memories?

Riddle’s other hand reached out, dangling a vial full of a familiar silvery liquid in front of Harry—a memory.

“This is the surviving witness’ account of events,” he said. “Would you like to see?”

Harry wished he could say no. He almost wanted to stay ignorant of Michael Tremblay’s doubtless horrible fate, to wake up and let his memories of the dream wash away with time. Knowing about Riddle’s cruelties in some vague form was one thing; seeing them happen was another thing entirely.

Riddle had shown him the vision for a reason, though. He couldn’t take the easy way out. He had to know.

“Yes,” he said.

The vial dropped to the floor and shattered, and the world swirled around them.

They were back in the sitting room—or rather, the ruins of the sitting room. Scorch marks littered the wall, the floor, the pieces of furniture thrown all about. The grand piano was still playing the same frantic melody. And, in the middle of a wide crimson pool, there was a body: too small for all the blood around it, with short, matted brown hair and unnaturally pale limbs splayed out.

Bile rose in Harry’s throat. His nails digging harshly into Riddle’s arm, he wrenched himself away. He couldn’t stand to be near Riddle right now, to have his touch staining him, when before…

The door blasted into splinters, soaring across the room to embed themselves in the wall opposite. Harry flinched back instinctively, his eyes darting to the figure staggering inside.

His robes hung off his frame, smeared with blood, so much blood, and scraps of glistening pink. Above his caved-in cheeks were deep, dark shadows. He held his wand high, his hands trembling wildly, decorated in wounds. When he spoke, his voice was a horribly familiar rasp.

“I know you’re in here, Emilia.”

Harry had known who he was from the moment he had entered, but he could barely believe what he was seeing. It definitely had to be a trick, one of Riddle’s manipulations, because how could Riddle have turned a regular human being into a wreck with Legilimency alone?

“You can come out, or I’ll destroy the house piece by piece and flush you out,” Tremblay said. His tone was flat, resigned. “The first one will be easier, but you’ve always been difficult, haven’t you.”

Harry couldn’t watch anymore. He whirled on Riddle. “What did you _do_?”

“Oh, plenty.” Riddle flashed him a dazzling smile. “It took a remarkable amount of effort, even for me, but his Occlumency wasn’t the best. Several false memories, a few suggestions, and the mind’s natural tendency to adapt… and here we are.”

He was disgustingly casual about brainwashing a man to kill his own family. Harry shouldn’t have expected anything less from Tom Riddle, shouldn’t have been as horrified as he was. Hadn’t he been familiar with Riddle? Hadn’t he watched Riddle drain Ginny’s life and laugh at Dumbledore’s death and puppeteer Harry’s strings? Hadn’t he known Voldemort had killed far, far more than a single family?

No, _this_ was in a different realm entirely. He couldn’t reconcile the charming, handsome Riddle from before with the Riddle who ruined a person from the inside-out to smile about it later. Yet they were one and the same. There had never been a difference, only Harry’s shaky beliefs. Delusions, more like.

“You’re disgusting,” Harry snarled. “You’re—”

Something exploded, and a shriek carried through the air. Harry spun around again to see a girl where the grand piano had been, holding a Shield Charm in place while she fumbled with her necklace with her other hand.

“Why are you doing this?” she called out. Her face was pale, her hands and voice unsteady, but she showed none of the desperation or terror Harry would have expected. She sounded like a reporter asking an interview question—intrusive, almost impersonal.

“You know,” Tremblay said. “You know I can’t let any of you live. You know pure blood can’t be allowed to—to contaminate the world any longer. Not even my…” He broke off, his composure cracking, his eyes darting briefly to the body of the child in the centre of the room. “You’re delaying.”

“I have a right to know,” Emilia said stiffly. She had gotten a hold on her necklace, silver with an emerald pendant. “We’re family, after all.”

“Family means nothing. We’re destroying the world. We’re mistakes. Abominations. Stop _delaying_!”

He lashed out with his wand, sending out a jet of bright blue light, but Emilia was faster. She twisted the pendant, whisking the sitting room away in a dizzying blur of colour. A Portkey.

What had the questions been for, then? Why hadn’t she escaped before? Why had she been lying in wait for Tremblay to attack her? Had she witnessed _everything_?

With their surroundings solidifying into an empty back street, though, Harry decided it didn’t matter. He had bigger problems to worry about. Much, much bigger problems.

He turned around to meet Riddle’s cold eyes.

“That was briefer than I would have liked, but you understood the idea, didn’t you?” Riddle asked. Looking at him made Harry wish he had never picked up the diadem, had never stumbled on Malfoy in the girls’ bathroom, had never even looked at the Half-Blood Prince’s book. His life was falling apart, and most of it was Riddle’s fault.

“What, that you’re an actual psychopath?” he said heatedly. He didn’t realise that he had started to back away until Riddle seized him by the wrists, his nails digging into his skin, and pulled him in.

“I could _ruin_ you, Harry,” he said in a low whisper. “I could make you strangle your friends in their sleep. I could make you worship at my feet. I could make you do _anything_.”

“You don’t have a wand, or a body. You can’t—”

“Did you think I needed your permission? Did you think I wouldn’t have a plan in place for if you fell out of line? I am the most powerful Legilimens in the world—I certainly don’t need a wand to tear your mind apart, especially because we are connected by souls. You only need to look me in the eye, to drift off into sleep for a second, dear horcrux, and I will rewrite you completely. The reason I chose to cooperate with you is because I thought you would see sense. Since you’ve decided to treat me like an enemy, however, I’ve decided to treat you the same way. You’ve brought this on yourself.”

“No, you did!” Harry burst out, ignoring the alarms going off in his head, warning him to stop provoking Riddle. “You threatened to kill Ginny. You manipulated me. What, you think I’d just bow to you, letting you threaten my friends whenever you wanted? Letting you use me like I’m one of your servants? You’re just throwing a fit because I bruised your gigantic ego. Face it, you—”

His voice abruptly died into silence. No matter how hard he tried to speak, no words would come out. He could only stare up at Riddle in outrage, wishing he could set him on fire, or stab him, or strangle him, or a million other things.

“I don’t know what to make of you,” Riddle remarked. “You are a very contradictory boy, Harry. You are bright, cunning, brimming with potential ready to be used… but then, at the same time, you show yourself to be an utterly soft-hearted fool. What am I supposed to do if you decide to kill yourself again on your silly, heroic whims, hm? I have _plans_ , and as interesting as you are, I can’t have you ruining them. So, here are your options.

“Your first option is to cooperate with me. We will continue on as before. I will help you defeat Lord Voldemort. I will even help you with fulfilling your Unbreakable Vow. In turn, you will not make attempts on your life or put yourself in harm’s way unless necessary. That is _all_ I require.

“Your second option is to refuse to help me, in which case I have options as well. My preference is to use Legilimency on you, of course. I’ve already told you I don’t need a wand. I could also use Severus Snape as my willing sacrifice to return to life, though that would tie our souls together for eternity.”

Riddle released Harry’s wrists and stepped back. Two rows of stinging half-moon imprints were left behind, traces of blood welling up in them.

“What do you say?” he said. Like he was actually giving Harry a choice. Like he didn’t already know the answer.

A thousand insults immediately rushed to Harry’s tongue. _Fuck you; you’re a psychopath; I hope you rot in hell; they probably invented the Cruciatus Curse to deal with people like you._ How did he know Riddle wasn’t bluffing? Riddle had needed a wand to use Legilimency in the vision. He could have altered Harry’s mind last night, while they were arguing. Harry was aware, now more than ever, that he couldn’t trust anything Riddle said.

Tremblay flashed in his mind. Bloody, haggard, insane. Barely able to look at his child. The child he had murdered.

Even if Riddle _was_ bluffing, Harry couldn’t afford to find out.

“Well?” Riddle prompted, a self-satisfied smile tugging at his lips. Harry wanted to punch it off his face. He wanted Riddle dead, more than he wanted anything.

“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Yes to…?”

“You already know, you smug bastard!”

Riddle laughed. Harry hated it, hated him.

“I’ll let you have that, at least,” he said. He reached out, laying a hand on Harry’s cheek. Harry snarled, moving to bat it away, but his hands wouldn’t cooperate. “Oh, and the stunt you pulled truly _was_ impressive. Shame it was targeted at me, but admirable all the same.”

“Go to h—”

But before Harry could finish, the world around him turned black, and he was falling, falling…

* * *

He landed in his bed, wide-eyed and panting.

The dorm was identical to how he had left it. The sound of familiar snoring filled the air, punctuated by the faint ticking of his watch on his bedside table and the occasional hoot of a nearby owl.

He brought his wrists to his face. Not a speck of blood or a single sunken mark on his skin. Yet he knew everything that had happened in the nightmare was real. It had to be real. His own mind couldn’t have come up with such a thing.

When he closed his eyes, he could only see himself standing over Ron and Hermione’s bodies. Gaunt. Trembling. Insane.

To tear someone’s mind apart. To rebuild them, rewrite their memories until they turned into a twisted reflection of their former self, willing to turn upon their family. Their own children. Harry had never even considered the idea before, and Riddle had perfected it at the age of seventeen. Perhaps the Imperius Curse wasn’t good enough for him.

Despite all of his efforts, his friends were still in danger. The entire school was still in danger. Riddle had lost the battle, won the war.

But he knew now. He knew what he had to do.

He would learn whatever magic Riddle taught him, and practice Occlumency every night, and destroy the horcruxes one by one, and learn as much as he could about Tom Riddle: his past, his desires, his ideas, his motivations, his plans.

And then, when the time came, when the horcruxes were gone and Voldemort was dead… he would kill Riddle, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Child death
> 
> * * *
> 
> Harry watch out you’re in a story tagged “Tom Riddle/Harry Potter” oh my god he’s trapped behind the fourth wall he can’t hear us oh my god


End file.
